


The Seeker

by kedavranox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bars and Pubs, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Christmas, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Drinking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fist Fights, H/D Erised 2019, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Leather Jackets, M/M, Mentions of Exchanging Sex for Favors, Mentions of Performance-Enhancing Drugs, Minor Harry Potter/Original Male Character(s), Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Piercings, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Quidditch, Quidditch Injuries, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Scars, Snow, Tattoos, brief spanking, mentions of hazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedavranox/pseuds/kedavranox
Summary: Draco’s position with the International Association of Quidditch has always been tenuous, but that may be about to change with Harry as his source on the biggest case of Performance-Enhancing Potions doping of the decade. But Draco soon learns that things are not as they seem, and he has to find a balance between his commitment to the IAQ and his evolving relationship with Harry, as they uncover secrets that even Harry has fought to keep.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 91
Kudos: 690
Collections: H/D Erised 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naein/gifts).



> Dear Dracospungen, I was so glad to be able to write for you! I hope you are able to enjoy what I came up with! Thank you to the mods for your undeserved patience, and for running this fest!

The Falmouth Falcons’ locker room is unseasonably warm for the beginning of December, filled with the body heat of over a dozen players at once. The air is heavy with the weight of defeat, the murmurs of players as they strip off the gear still redolent of the storm battering the glass windows that offer a one-way view of the grey and dreary-looking pitch. 

Draco’s sensitive nose easily picks out the notes of dirt and wind, lying just beneath the overwhelming musty scent of sweaty bodies packed tightly within the heat. Both the first- and second-string players settle in to wait for their postgame notes on the long wooden benches scattered about the room, looking utterly wiped out, their brooms lying dead, a few almost broken, at their feet. 

Draco knows that feeling of loss only too well, not only from his Hogwarts days but through his training at Aerovane. He always found himself Seeking for the second- or third-string teams—no one had trusted him to run first—and he had grown so accustomed to losing that by the end of the training camp, he’d never once entered the pitch with the hope of winning a match at all. 

He walks along the back of the locker room quietly, unnoticed by most of the team as they sit facing the opposite direction, like prisoners awaiting a firing squad, and leans against one of the empty cubbies in the shadows. He folds his arms across his chest, scanning the room for Harry, and feeling unaccountably nervous about seeing him at the same time. 

Unsurprisingly, but still disappointingly, the Falcons’ first-string Seeker is nowhere to be found. He’ll be with a Healer, then, somewhere in the depths of the gargantuan training grounds. Draco had seen Harry take at least three hits from a Bludger in the last hour of the match alone and had winced each time. It seems—in keeping with the brutal reputation of the Falmouth Falcons—even the second-string Beaters show no mercy on the pitch. No one watching would have known it was only a practice match, or that the players were all a part of the same team. 

Richard Wells, coach of the Falmouth Falcons for the last two decades, stalks into the locker room from the pitch-side entrance, his broad chest heaving, his mouth turned downwards with frustration. There’s a gleaming Bludger nestled in one of his palms—an already ominous sight —and as soon as he looks upon them, all the players in the room fall into a sudden, tense silence. 

Draco always heard that Wells runs his team like a private militia, but to see it first hand is… unnerving. 

Wells casually passes the Bludger between his palms as he stands before his team, legs apart, his wide shoulders—a reminder of the merciless Keeper he’d once been—high with tension. He takes an obvious breath—seemingly contemplating the manner of dressing down he’s going to mete out to his players—and lets it out with a sigh. 

“It seems I’ve been mistaken,” Wells begins casually, his Cornish accent thick. “See, I thought I was the coach of the top team in England.” He paces the floor, and Draco shifts a little uneasily, trying to read the expressions on the players faces. 

The veins on Wells’ forearms bulge dangerously as he squeezes the Bludger between his palms. “I thought the Falmouth bloody Falcons was the team with the most wins in the entire fucking history of of the European fucking League!” Wells abruptly stops and throws the Bludger across the room, slamming one of the Chasers—Eli Jacobson, Draco gathers from the name on the back of his uniform—in the chest. From the non-reaction of the other players, the softness of Jacobson’s cry, and the way he simply catches the Bludger in his palms with a wince rather than letting it fall to the floor, it’s obvious to Draco that this kind of crazy is the norm for the Falcons coach. “You lot look as though you don’t even know the right end of a fucking broomstick!” 

Draco steps forward out of the shadows out of sheer reflex more than anything, and Wells noticeably stills, then stumbles backwards, chest heaving. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he says blandly. “Are you lost? Can I help you, boy?” 

_Boy_? Draco grinds his teeth to reel himself in—an appalling habit that gives away his emotions, according to his father—and inclines his head. “Coach Wells, I need a word with you in private, if you please,” he says, trying to remain professional when all he wants to do is scream and ask everyone in the room if they’re absolutely insane for letting anyone treat them this way, coach or not. 

“I’m busy at the moment,” Wells says, jaw tight. “Maybe if you made an appointment or announced—” 

_“Now_ , Wells,” Draco says, voice hard as nails. He gestures to the hallway behind him and waits with a raised brow, hoping that Wells won’t force him to make a scene. Wells knows full well who Draco works for and he had hoped, for Harry’s sake at least, that this could be done quietly. 

Wells shifts from foot to foot, hands on his hips, apparently taking a moment to weigh his bravado against his common sense. Recognising the need for a trump card—Wells will probably try to continue this ridiculous stand off all day—Draco reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out the envelope from within, making sure that the dark green seal of the IAQ—the International Association of Quidditch—is visible to everyone in the room. 

Wells surveys his team with one last superior look and then says—in a decidedly more mellow tone than before—“All right then, lads, you’re off. Take the day tomorrow, find your heads, come back fresh and ready to play like you belong on this team.” 

Half the players are up and out the door before Wells can finish his speech, brushing by Draco with curious glances, a few with sneers. It is no secret that Quidditch is under some major scrutiny by the IAQ—and the world at large—so Draco isn’t surprised. One player in particular, Callum O’Malley, first-string Keeper, bumps Draco’s shoulder hard as he walks by, muttering the word ‘lackey’ beneath his breath as he goes. Draco rolls his eyes and steps aside until Wells reaches him and nods towards his office. 

They both make their way down the wide, brightly-lit hallway that leads to Wells’ office, but Wells doesn’t wait until they reach it to start demanding information. “What the bleeding fuck, Malfoy? You come here in the middle of hell week, waving that around?” He gestures to the envelope in Draco’s hand as they sidestep a middle-aged witch pushing a lunch cart. Wells stops her and grabs a corned beef sandwich, and then carries on without offering Draco a thing. 

“What are you trying to do to my players?!” he continues, peeling back the thick wax paper around his sandwich and taking a bite. “They’re already losing their fucking minds.” 

They round the corner and Wells holds the door open to his office with his sandwich-free palm as Draco slips inside. He shuts it behind them hard enough to rattle the rows upon rows of European League cups that line the massive wooden shelves running across all four walls of the office. 

The space itself is almost obsessively neat, the dark carpet compliments the pale blue walls, and the east wall is interrupted by a massive window that overlooks the now snowy pitch. Stacks of sports almanacs and play books line bookshelves in alphabetical order, and most of the far side of the room is taken up by a small sofa flanked by antique side tables and a wooden coffee table, but Draco knows he won’t be invited to sit there. 

The room smells of newspaper and Dragonhide leather, conditioning oil and stale tobacco, and had Draco not just witnessed Wells attacking his players, he would have said it looked like any other coach’s office. But now he knows that it belongs to a certifiable arsehole, and very likely, a bloody cheat. 

Wells passes Draco and walks around his desk to take his seat, dropping the remains of his sandwich on his desk and Summoning a handkerchief to wipe his hands and mouth. His desk is adorned only with a stack of memos, a timepiece and a floating replica of the Falmouth’s first and only award-winning broom prototype, with a plaque beneath it labeled ‘Storm Chaser I’.  
Wells leans back in his high-backed plush leather chair and gestures for Draco to sit across from him, apparently nonchalant about having been witnessed abusing his team, or about the official green seal of the IAQ. 

Draco stands behind the high-back chair meant for him but doesn’t sit yet. “What I just witnessed—” Draco pauses, knowing that the most he can do about it is lodge a complaint and see it ignored. Until now—or rather, before Draco’s informant came forward six months ago—the Falcons, and Wells, have been untouchable. Still. Draco’s horror at what he’s seen compels him to say something. “I’ll be making a note of it in my report, you understand, don’t you?” 

Wells laughs at him. Actually. Fucking. Laughs. 

“Why don’t you tell me what this is really about, son?” he says patronisingly, waving his wand at Draco’s chair so that it begins insistently bumping into his thighs. “Have a seat.” 

Draco sits, slightly stunned, but mostly infuriated. “You know about the allegations against Macmillan,” he says woodenly, carefully imagining throwing the very chair he’s sitting on at Wells’ head. 

“Of course I know about it,” Wells snaps. "I'm his bloody coach, aren't I?” 

He takes another bite of his sandwich and chews on it as he Conjures a pair of reading glasses and begins to peruse one of the memos on his desk. “Don’t think you can harass my team because Macmillan is under investigation,” he says without even looking at Draco. “I’ve already benched the bastard, what more do you want?” 

Draco slides the envelope across the desk, and continues speaking as though Wells hadn’t said anything at all. “The accusations are founded. Macmillan has tested positive for the illegal Performance-Enhancing Potion Quidesorol.” 

The memo falls from Wells’ hands as he peers at Draco over his glasses for a long moment. “Bollocks,” he says flatly. 

“If you’re not aware, the presence of Quidesorol at the level it was found in Macmillan’s sample constitutes an instant lifetime ban from the League.” 

Wells doesn’t say anything to this, but his gaze drops to Draco’s envelope. He rips it open, pulling out the letter as he leans back in his chair to skim the contents, his thick brows inching slowly up into his hairline. “My whole fucking team?” Wells yanks off his glasses to glare at Draco furiously. “You’re demanding samples from my whole fucking team?! What the hell is this?” 

“We have reason to believe that Macmillan took the PEP before he was drafted to the national team,” Draco says, enjoying watching the pulsing vein on Wells forehead grow larger by the second. “Therefore, the IAQ is making the case that England’s World Cup win is forfeit.” 

Wells stares at him for a moment. “You want to take his Cup away?” he says incredulously. “What gives you the right?” 

“Because of his status on the Falcons, we’re launching an investigation into your team, Wells,” Draco says. “Complete physical scans, blood tests, all of it.” Draco pauses, studying the almost deadened look of shock in Wells’ gaze. “As we speak, my colleagues are collecting the necessary samples; my discussion with you now is only as a courtesy from the IAQ, given your long standing in the sport.” 

Wells glances at his wand as though he could somehow put a stop to what’s already been set in motion. “You… you…” Well’s mouth moves uselessly for a moment, then he seems to gather himself. “You’ve got yourself a snitch, don’t you?” 

Draco sends him a patently bland look. “I’m not at liberty to answer that question—” 

“Don’t play coy,” Wells says, cutting him off. He pushes away from his desk as if to stand, and then settles back down again, his movements erratic and unsteady. “There's no way the IAQ could pull this off without an inside man.” 

Draco clenches his jaw for a moment, refusing to say anything that may confirm or deny Wells’ theory—he doesn’t trust Wells not to call for a lynch mob—and gives Wells the full weight of his stare. 

Wells makes another abortive motion, no doubt to run his strangely small fingers through his moustache again and spits, “Who is he?” in a tone that makes Draco’s hackles rise. 

Fighting back the urge to reach for his wand, Draco reminds himself that it would not be professional, nor beneficial to his already precarious position in the IAQ, to curse Wells’ mouth shut. 

Permanently. 

“If,” Draco begins, “the IAQ does have an ‘snitch’ as you call it, they would be protected by law.” 

“By _law_ , any player who’d sell out his team should be bloody sacked from the League!” Wells hacks out, his voice gravelly. “Not only for unsportsmanlike conduct, but a lack of loyalty!” 

Draco is so close to losing it that he actually grips the armrests of his chair, digging his nails into the leather to keep himself from physically lashing out across the table. “What about integrity, Wells?” he says, annoyed at how breathless he sounds. “Can you honestly not see that this is going to affect the sport on an international level? How we must look to the rest of the world? Macmillan played for England, with a great big bloody red cross on his back. What does that say about us? About our country?” 

Wells gives him a disgusted look. “Don’t be so naïve, Malfoy. You think England is the only country with a doping problem?” Wells raises a palm, cutting off Draco's’ response. “Allegedly,” he looks at Draco with a smug, superior sneer. “Have you _seen_ Viktor Krum?” He sits back in his seat and strokes his ridiculous moustache. “Integrity, you say? I say bollocks. If your little snitch had any integrity, he would have come to his _coach_. Not the bloody IAQ.” 

Wells gestures to the window behind him overlooking the pitch, now filled with amateur players in the middle of a snow laden practice match. “You know what your problem is?” he says, his eyes tracking the players. “You’ve never been good enough for Quidditch. _Real_ Quidditch, not that child's play you did in school. You’ve never stepped onto the pitch with a group of lads, your family, wearing the same colours as you, knowing they’d all have your back.” His gaze flicks back to Draco, hard and cruel. “You’ve no business working for IAQ.” 

It isn’t widely known that even though he graduated Camp Aerovane after the war—the infamous Quidditch training camp known for shitting out first-string League players for the last century and a half—Draco hadn’t been recruited by any teams in the League. But Draco would bet a thousand Galleons on Wells being privy to every little detail of Draco’s humiliation; the smirk behind his eyes makes that completely clear. 

During his final year at Aerovane, when it became clear that no one in the League would give him a shot—because he was a Death Eater and his father had paid his way into the camp—he’d sustained a minor injury in a practice match and he’d ran with it. He retired from professional play—not that he’d ever even been given much of a go at it in the first place—and had been handed a place at the IAQ—again through his father’s connections with the board. 

A year or two later, when most of his father’s friends had been voted out of from the top, he’d only been allowed to stay after some shameless groveling, and more years of grunt work; years of working as a glorified secretary, years of being the coffee and paper boy for more important men and women until he landed his first big case. 

This case. 

He still isn’t sure that anyone in the IAQ takes him seriously, not even Wood, but there is no denying that this case, if Draco handles it right, will be a landmark, likely to change the sport of Quidditch and its governance all over the world. The fact that the informant who started it all will only speak to Draco—a major source of resentment between Draco and most of the investigative department—is the only real power he has at IAQ, and lately even that hangs by a thread. 

The mix of fury and frustration—the reminder of his impotence at IAQ, his resentment at the memory of his shame, the painful flashbacks of sitting in the stands as each team in the League looked him over at every scouting event as though he were nothing—flares in his chest so violently, so painfully, that he can’t stop himself from giving Wells the reaction he’s been looking for all morning, and the timepiece at the edge of the desk shatters. 

Wells doesn’t even flinch. 

"You’re a fucking wanker,” Draco whispers, his fury weakening the strength of his voice just as it’s done since he was a teen. “And if you’re involved in this at all, even marginally, trust me, I’ll fucking wreck you.” He stands, carefully pushing his seat back into its place, taking a surreptitious breath, and placing his hands upon its high back. “The IAQ appreciates your cooperation in this matter,” he continues, voice cordial now, and ignores Wells’ scoff. “We’ll contact you as soon as our tests are concluded.” 

Wells sits back in his seat, folding his hands across his chest in apparent unconcern. “Your snitch can’t hide forever, Malfoy,” he says darkly. “And I won’t stop my lads from defending what they’ve worked their whole lives to achieve when he’s caught out.” 

Draco stills at the door, his magic stirring uneasily within him, ready to strike. “I’d advise you not to make threats, Richard.” 

“Threats?” Wells scoffs, though it seems rather more affected than genuine. “Boy, do you know the kind of money the Falcons _make_ for the IAQ? Nothing is going to come of this.” 

Draco doesn’t respond, though he’d very much like to knock his fist right into Wells’ infuriating overbite. He inclines his head and drops his business card unceremoniously onto the desk. “Keep an eye out for my owl.” 

He walks, back straight, out of Wells’ office, and once sure he’s out of sight, he leans up against the wall and takes a calming breath. 

If this case goes south, Draco can kiss his career goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry contacted him three months ago to meet for a drink, Draco had assumed it would be more of the same. They’d meet at some hole-in-the-wall Muggle place—somewhere artsy and obviously queer, just as Harry likes—they’d have a Scotch, insult each other and volley barbs across the table, leaving wounds they’d both pretend not to feel. The more they drank, the deeper the wounds would become, then they’d leave. They’d head to Draco’s place, or a hotel—never Harry’s home. They’d have, yet again, the best sex of Draco’s life, Draco would _again_ raise the impossible standard he’d begun to measure his various lovers, and no one would come close, and after, Draco would be miserable, until the next time.

It was nothing like that at all. First, Harry had asked to meet at Draco's flat—something that had sent Draco into a nervous flurry of last-minute tidying—and when he had arrived, he’d been anxious and withdrawn. Draco had offered Scotch without having been asked, and Harry had sat heavily at Draco’s breakfast nook and announced, “I think my teammate’s been taking Quidesorol.” 

At which point Draco had put the Scotch down and asked, “Is this… on the record, or off?”   
and Harry looked up at him with an expression so lost that Draco hadn’t known what to do. 

The only proof Harry could provide was a Pensieve memory of walking into Ernie Macmillan taking a shot of what was unmistakably Quidesorol. At Aerovane, they’d all been taught what it looked and smelled like—the distinct dark blue smoke which rose above it, the unmistakable scent of Ashwinder eggshells. It didn’t look good; Harry had seen Macmillan taking the potion before the Quidditch Cup final but had no time to confront him before the match. Since the match—England had lost—Macmillan had avoided all of Harry’s attempts to contact and confront him. 

He’d been grappling with it in his own for weeks; Draco had gathered that from the dark circles beneath Harry’s still brilliant-green eyes. Their only choice was to take it to the IAQ before the European League season began, because not only had Macmillan been drafted for the English team, he’s also Harry’s teammate on the Falmouth Falcons. 

Fast-forward three months later, with the positive tests to prove Harry right. After cooperating with Draco for most of the investigation, Harry himself has been concerningly incommunicado for over a month, which is the other reason Draco has decided to complete today’s tasks in person: he has to make contact.

The Quaffle is flying now, and unless Macmillan decides to talk—he’d hired a solicitor as soon as possible and refused to speak to anyone about where he’d acquired the drugs—he’s about to be the first national team player to earn a lifetime ban from the sport. 

Draco allows his vague memory of the Falcons facility from his IAQ training tour to lead him to the infirmary where he’s certain he’ll find his contact either making a nuisance of himself, or entirely unconscious. There is no in-between.

From the walloping he saw Harry take on the pitch—the second-string Beaters were not light-handed with their bats—he’s certain there are at least a few broken bones to mend and some bruises to heal. Draco keeps his ears and eyes peeled; making sure that no one is following him, and pauses to cast a discreet Notice-Me-Not Charm on himself to be certain.

His Dragonhide leather boots make no sound against the suspiciously spotless tiles of the long corridor. The entire stretch of walkway is dreary and dim, an apparent reflection of the frigid weather outside. 

The Falcons training facility is first class, one of the best in the League, with three full-sized training pitches enclosed by the massive, hollow dome-shaped training facility itself. Within it are accommodations for Death Camp during hell week—the three week period before the competition season begins where team members are required to board onsite. 

The facility boasts a state of the art gym facility, and a massive broom warehouse and innovation department, where it’s rumoured the Falcons are working on a racing prototype to rival their first. Visiting teams often fight each other to book the pitch for off-season training, and youth camps like Aerovane pay out the nose to host their championship games at the end of their tenure.

All in all, it makes for a team worth millions of Galleons, and with their domination of the European League for the last five years, Draco’s investigation, and the stakes behind it, are intimidatingly high. 

It won’t survive if Harry were to back out now. 

The European League has established itself as multi-million Galleon industry, and Harry is one of the highest-paid players, their prized Abraxan, and Draco wouldn’t put it past them to threaten him somehow. To coax him into silence while the IAQ sweeps everything—including Draco—under the rug.

Draco follows the complicated stairways and passages and abruptly stops, certain he’s got himself lost until he hears the echo of the low, husky baritone of his quarry, obviously in some sort of disagreement with his Healer. Draco doubles back and slips into the infirmary and then as he struggles to catch the thread of the argument.

“Potter, I’ve told you this five times already,” the Healer says. “I’m not allowed to up your dose.” A rustle of papers. “It’s in your contract.”

“I know my bloody contract.” Harry’s voice is low and pained, and Draco slinks into the room. He’s confident of his Notice-Me-Not Charm, but he still moves behind one of the numerous white screens, not wanting to push his luck. 

“Eogan, I’m in pain. And I know everyone else gets about three times this dose whenever they’re hit.” Harry’s tone grows hard. “My contract was written by overly cautious wankers because I cost them 15 million a year.” 

“Don’t brag,” Eogan says. There’s a note of flirtation his voice that raises Draco’s hackles—not that he has any claim to Harry, or that he has any _desire_ to make claims on Harry. 

Mostly. 

Definitely. 

What he wants is to peer around the white curtain that hides them both, just to see what Eogan and Harry are doing. Or maybe to see if the bloke is fit. Or maybe it’s to see for himself what it is about this Healer that makes Harry’s husky voice take on that same sexy undertone it gets when Draco has him by the hair, Harry’s limbs tangled in his sheets.

“… because we prioritize your health more than anything.” Draco pulls himself out of _that_ particular memory with some difficulty and tunes back into the conversation. “But what do I know?” Eogan finishes dryly.

“I’ll blow you on the pitch if you break the rules for me.” 

Draco’s body gives an involuntary twitch, his shoulder knocking into the portable divider between the hospital beds. He closes his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath. 

“Merlin,” Eogan’s voice is breathless, and thankfully neither of them seems to notice the ruckus. 

“Come on, mate. It’s three broken three ribs.” If he was the target of this performance, Draco’s not sure he could say with confidence that the husky plea in Harry’s voice wouldn’t unravel him. Merlin knows how _Eogan_ is holding it together. "In about an hour or two this Skele-Gro is going to be a pain in my arse, and all I want to do tonight is sleep without my body feeling as though it’s on fire.” 

There's a long stretch of silence, the sound of shuffling feet and fabric, a wet pop, and Draco’s certain that Harry’s doing something obscene with his mouth. Possibly his hands. Probably both.

“Fuck. _Fuuuuuck_.” Eogan’s voice is little more than a whisper. “You’re such a goddamned tease.” 

Another shuffling sound, a helpless moan followed by a pathetic, and obviously capitulating whimper. “Alright, fine,” the Healer says, voice wavering. “I’ll have to get it by hand. If I Summon it it’ll be catalogued and we’d both be in shit.” Another pause. “Sit here and keep your bloody tongue in your mouth. You’re incorrigible.”

The moment the sound of Eogan’s footsteps begin to fade away, Draco steps around the white curtain, only to find Harry looking at him, an exasperated expression on his face. 

“You would have made a shit Auror, Draco,” he says. Harry’s voice is a cutting deadpan, but he doesn’t exactly seem unhappy to see him. 

Only resigned.

Which is worse. 

Draco straightens his already crisp shirt. “Happily,” he says, trying his best not to stare at Harry’s exposed chest. “I’ve never wanted to be one.” 

Harry rolls his eyes before Summoning his T-shirt with a wave of his hand. The scar where his eyebrow ring had been tugged from his brow during a match is still angry and vivid, hovering just above his left eye. His hair is shorn close, the way he keeps it during the Quidditch season, and Draco desperately wants to pass his palm over Harry’s spiky head, not only for the pleasure of touching him, but also because it’s such a bloody turn on.

Instead of pulling on his shirt, Harry holds it in his lap on the bed, the mass of tattoos on his arms and shoulders and chest starkly visible under the bright lights of the sickbay. Splashed across his left ribs is a nightmarishly deep purple bruise, but even more worrisome is the expression on Harry’s face. His brows are pinched, and after a closer look, Draco can't help but notice that his under eyes are smudged almost blue, the way they are when Harry hasn’t been sleeping. His cheekbones, which are already striking enough combined with his powerful jaw, seem more hollow than usual, more pronounced, as though Harry hasn’t been eating enough to keep up with his training. 

“What’s going on?” Draco darts a quick glance over his shoulder in case the Healer should suddenly make an appearance. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You don’t take my calls. You return my owls…”

“I—” Harry’s voice is uncharacteristically shaky and he rubs at his stubbled chin, two of his fingernails almost black from blood blisters trapped beneath. His hands are shaking and Draco’s almost certain he hasn’t seen Harry this… unsettled since their days at Hogwarts. “I think I really fucked up. I shouldn’t have come to you… I—” 

“What?” Draco’s voice drops to that same icy range that’s cost him at least a few friendships. “You’re doing this now…? You _know_ this will all be for nothing without your name to back me up!” 

Harry stands up and carefully threads his hands into his shirt sleeves, rolling them up his forearms in obvious pain. “Ernie’s banned. _Banned_ , Draco. For the rest of his life.” He stills and glances at Draco with a lost look in his eyes. “I didn’t talk to him… or give him a chance to explain… and now—” 

“What fucking chance?” Draco almost yells, running a frantic hand through his hair. “He’s a cheat, Harry! He cheated. You saw it with your own eyes. What chance could you have given him?” 

“You don’t get what this game means to us.” Harry slowly pulls the T-shirt over his head and tugs it down to his hips. “You never did.” 

It’s worse hearing it from Harry. It doesn’t even compare to what it felt like hearing it from Wells. Draco’s always hated the power Harry holds over his emotions. Over the years it’s only become worse, no matter how much Draco pretends otherwise; Harry’s barbs will always cut more deeply than anyone else's, no matter how far they’ve come. 

Maybe Draco has perfected the art of pretending not to care so much that Harry actually buys into it, but Merlin, Draco wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes that _Harry_ could be the one person to see through him. Can’t he remember what their time at Aerovane had been like? Hadn’t he seen how much it had hurt? Back then, Quidditch had felt like Draco’s only hope—the only possible future that could exist outside of Lucius’ control. He was so naive, thinking he could make it because his talent was the one thing they couldn’t take. He’d watched Harry receive offers from the Wasps, the Falcons, the Kestrels, Puddlemere… everyone had wanted him. Every night, Draco would check the owlery, but no offers came. He’d learned how to pretend then, but he didn’t think he’d had Harry fooled, too. He’d thought that in the strange sort of truce they’d made, when they had become almost friends after being forced together as roommates and playing on the same practice teams—Harry was always first string, Draco was frequently benched— that Harry would at least have been able to make a guess at how much pain Draco was in. How much it hurt not to be chosen—not being allowed to _have_ Quidditch the way they others did.

Something in Draco’s face must give away his hurt, because Harry’s expression softens. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, quietly. “It’s just that—”

“I know what you mean,” Draco interrupts, proud of his steady, even tone. “Macmillan’s losing his job, his standing, respect. I get it. But—” 

Harry raises a hand to stop him, his eyes wide with alarm. “Eogan’s coming back,” Harry says. “You should leave. I’m fucked if he sees you with me.” 

Draco stands firm, there’s no way he’s letting go of this without finding out just what the fuck is going on. “Harry you cannot do this to me now.” His voice is a fierce whisper, and though the last thing he wants to do is admit weakness, he adds, “You know I need this case.” 

Harry’s gaze flicks away and back, green eyes unnaturally bright beneath the lights. “You don’t know everything.” 

“I’m asking you to tell me.” 

Harry’s gaze flicks behind Draco’s shoulder again and he sighs. “Give me an hour. We can meet at the usual place.” 

“I—” Draco wants to make Harry promise that he’s not flaking out, that the case of Draco’s career isn’t about to implode before it’s even begun, but the sound of the Healer’s footsteps begin to hastily approach and Draco’s mouth snaps shut with a click. 

“Please. Go. I swear I’ll meet you there.” Harry’s panicked expression—eyes wide with some unnamed fear—is enough to finally convince him to leave, and he hustles to the doorway and down the hall before Harry’s Healer can spot him.

If Harry doesn’t show up, Draco is going to kill him.


	3. Chapter 3

The Lion’s Head is Harry’s favourite pub, but on a Friday evening in winter, the inside seating is packed, and that makes Draco uneasy as all hell. He asks the waitress for an outdoor table and after a brief, incredulous look, she leads him out to the quiet back garden. He chooses one of the tables at the very back, hidden beneath a web of overgrown ivy hanging over a stone ledge that juts out over the wooden table and it’s warm enough with the space heaters and the outdoor hearth, but Draco casts a discreet Warming Charm anyway.

“It’s actually not that bad out tonight,” the hostess says absently as they shuffle about the table. Her voice light and airy with a hint of a Scottish brogue, and she rests the menus down as Draco takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. The hostess gives him a not-at-all-discreet once-over, and Draco never knows what to do in these kinds of situations, so he awkwardly smiles and blurts out an order for fish and chips and the only beers he remembers from the menu while his face heats. 

She smiles and takes the hint, writing down the order on her pad before walking away. Draco casts a weak misdirection charm so that no one will try to snag the seat opposite, or Merlin forbid, come over to the table in an attempt to chat him up. 

Harry always claims he doesn’t know why he loves this place so much, but it was immediately obvious to Draco the first time Harry had brought him here, only days after he had played his first match in the Quidditch World Cup. Not one year out of Aerovane, Harry was drafted for England’s second string, only to be called off the bench in the quarter-final match, when the starting Seeker had taken a Bludger to the head. England had lost even though Harry caught the Snitch. It was a catastrophic blunder on his part, and all the papers could talk about for weeks was that if Harry had held off, England could have pulled themselves out of the hole they’d buried themselves in (nonsense, as far as Draco’s concerned). Harry had been devastated and no one had seen him for days, but he’d sent Draco a cryptic owl asking him to meet, with directions to The Lion’s Head, and of course, Draco had gone. 

There’s never been a time where Harry has called and Draco hasn’t shown, and maybe that’s half the problem between them. 

The pub is almost Weasley-esque in its antique shabbiness, with a proper English cottage garden in the back, nestled beneath string lights that traverse from the low roof to the brick wall to the back. The antique wooden tables look like they’ve been around since Henry V with their faded, circular beer glass stains, and are beautified only by the enamel cup centrepieces filled with dried columbines and daisies and cornflowers. 

In the winter there’s a real fireplace with hickory-scented firewood that the patrons can tend to themselves with a tin pail of kindling etched with a lion’s mane. Harry likes to sit beside the fire with ale until his gaze grows slanted, and then Draco knows he’ll be ready to leave, and that night will be softer than the others. 

He’s absolutely gone on Harry. It’s obvious to anyone who knows what to look for, and thankfully there are very few people in Draco’s life that do. The timing is bad, it’s always bad, but with Harry as Draco’s lead witness in the biggest case of his life, the timing is the worst it’s ever been. So it only makes sense that Draco’s feelings are the strongest they’ve ever been. No matter how he tries to convince himself that he shouldn’t, he craves Harry with an ardency that scares him. Not seeing him these past few months have been… difficult, especially since before the case had begun, they had built up a routine that had been sustaining him with its regularity—with its constancy. Draco had begun to depend on it. He’d started to expect Harry’s owls, his calls, his presence. Now, it seems, it will be even harder than usual to convince his brain that Harry will never be his. 

But it’s fine. 

It’s always been fine. To live with the absence of what Draco most desires—respect from his peers, the chance to pursue the things he loves, a semblance of any _real_ sort of emotional life—is something he had come to expect for his future. Being with Harry had changed that for a time, made him long for something he thought would never be a part of his reality, but Harry doesn’t freely admit to their friendship, much less that they’ve been fucking each other for years.

So Draco had learned to take what he could get, and whenever he and Harry had taken a break—these were never planned, Harry’s missives would come less frequently, and then, for a time, stop altogether before picking back up again just as suddenly—Draco’s attempts at relationships were nothing short of disastrous. Wizard, or Muggle, it had always started out well, the sex was good, and they were a few who had managed to connect with Draco on an emotional level, but within months, when the artificial perfection of new dick became worn, he’d be accused of being a ‘completely heartless shit’, an ‘emotionally unavailable arsehole’, and his favourite, a ‘completely and utterly pathetic wanker, hung up on some bloke who’d never want him back’. Which was true, but utterly miserable to hear from the one bloke he’d thought could replace Harry—a delirious notion now, but he’d had hope back then.

Even if Draco were to forget that Harry is one of the most dysfunctional men he knows (including himself) their fucked-up relationship still wouldn’t end in a ‘ _happily ever after_ ’. There’s no one the wizarding public loves more than Harry, and there are very few they hate more than the Malfoys. Harry’s always been a bit of a public possession, always under scrutiny, and Draco knows more than anyone—because god forbid Harry talk to his _friends_ —how much being treated like some sort of monarchy kills any chances of Harry having a normal love life. He’s barely able to go shopping in Diagon Alley without being accosted. When Harry dates anyone at all, it’s like a public trial. Draco wouldn’t survive that, and Harry’s made it clear that, to him, the idea has never been up for consideration. 

Draco looks down at his table, now containing two servings of fish and chips, complete with mushy peas and two ales, already sweating with condensation. He has no memory of the waitress bringing them to the table and he absently glances at his watch only to suffer a jolt. Harry’s almost two hours late now, and Draco’s heart apparently views this as enough reason to beat itself into overdrive. 

He absently grabs a chip and contemplates ringing Harry on his rarely used mobile, but just as the thought begins to form, Harry is there, gracefully parting the crowd before him and heading straight towards Draco as if he’d instinctively known where to find him. 

Merlin. 

It’s frankly obnoxious how helplessly attracted he is to the git. Just catching sight of those broad shoulders encased in the heavy leather jacket layered over his off-white—possibly once white—jumper, the worn denim encasing those thick thighs, is enough to make Draco seriously consider forgetting the whole case. He’d rather Disapparate somewhere with Harry—somewhere they can fuck ceaselessly without reality or Draco’s hideously needy expectations creeping in. 

For some reason completely unbeknownst to him, he stands as Harry approaches the table. When Harry notices what he’s doing, he smiles crookedly, and Draco considers simply Apparating away alone instead. Too late for it now… he shakes Harry’s hand like a great bloody idiot, and Harry obliges him with a soft smile still hinting at the corners of his mouth as he pulls out his chair. With little preamble, he sits and gracelessly tucks into his meal. 

“Oh cheers,” he says, closing his eyes briefly and chewing on a chip. “Fried food is off-limits at base camp.”

Draco tucks the military reference away for later and sits, taking a sip of his ale and observing Harry quietly as he scoops a bite of mushy peas with a broken-off bit of his fish. He looks freshly showered and under the effects of Pepper-Up or, more likely, something less innocuous and more potent. Draco wouldn’t put it past Harry to take something just legal enough to fly under the radar in order to keep himself going through the pain of his injuries, and the sheer exhaustion of hell week in of itself. Though he knows Harry would never take anything illegal—he’d passed all the tests Draco had made him take before the investigation began—the legal stuff he _can_ take isn’t always safe. Speed Chasers, the general name for the category of potions that Harry would likely thrive on, the types that’ll keep him going no matter how fucked up he is on lack of sleep or food, none of them are remotely healthy long term. But if he knows Wells, and Draco does—the man is easy enough to take measure of—Harry’s likely been taking them for years.

Merlin knows why the git has such a hold over Harry. Wells had coached on and off at Aerovane when they’d been there together, always ignoring Draco and most of the other recruits, and doting on Harry as though he was aiming to be Harry’s father. Which was likely his plan.

Draco hadn’t been blind even then. He’d known from the thinly veiled sadness and desperation of their conversations after dark that one of the things Harry deeply craved, even if he was unaware of it, was some kind of father figure. Since most of the men in his life who could take on the role were dead, it had been easy for Wells to ingratiate himself into Harry’s esteem, and Draco, not secure enough in their tenuous friendship then, had said nothing.

Harry looks up and catches Draco’s quiet contemplation, and his green eyes go soft. “You’re all in your head.”

Draco can’t help but smile as he reaches for his ale. “As ever. Can’t help it.”

Harry dabs at his mouth with his napkin, takes a sip of his ale and says, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” He touches Draco’s hand briefly, and Draco can’t move even if he wanted to. What are they talking about again? “It was stupid and thoughtless, and I was wrong. I _know_ you get Quidditch, Draco. I know how much you love it.” 

Merlin. That’s just Harry isn’t it? Straightforward, sincere, and painfully earnest, even when contrite. How could anyone not forgive him? “I—” Draco shuts his mouth. Opens it again. The last thing he expected was for them to rehash that particular bit of conversation tonight, but here it is. “Thank you.”

Harry nods and squeezes Draco’s hand again briefly before sitting back in his seat, running a flat palm over his buzzed hair in the way Draco always fantasises about doing himself. Harry catches his look and smiles almost suggestively, his eyes crinkling in the corners, more hazel than green in the dim light.

“I said it all wrong earlier, but… what I meant was…” Harry takes a sip of his ale and only then does Draco notice that his hands are shaking. “Being on a team—being in the League. It’s different. A different kind of pressure. Different... expectations.”

“I’m well aware that it isn’t easy, but—”

Harry raises a palm and cuts him off. “Ernie doesn’t have much else in his life now that I’ve taken Quidditch.” Draco tries to interrupt again, to say what they both know—Harry didn’t take Quidditch away from Macmillan, he’d done that himself—but Harry gives him such a sharp look that Draco shuts his mouth again and quietly seethes as Harry finishes his speech. “I know what that’s like, and I ratted him out anyway. For what? Do you think he’s the only player in the League who’s using?”

“That doesn’t make it okay, Harry. You know it doesn’t.”

“It was self-righteous,” Harry says flatly. “I followed everyone else instincts but my own. I did what you wanted… but it never felt right.”

“Harry,” Draco says slowly. “Have you been in contact with Macmillan, after I explicitly told you not to be?”

Harry avoids Draco’s gaze and pops a chip in his mouth.

“For fuck’s sake! If he’s telling you some tale to warm your painfully Gryffindor heart…”

“It’s not a fucking tale,” Harry says.“He… didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, come on… ”

“I know what it sounds like, but you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like when everyone, when Coach…” Harry trails off and Draco sets his ale down with a thump.

“I _knew_ that officious shithead was involved in this.”

“Don’t start, please... I know you don’t like him.” Harry’s voice is tired and worn, and something about his countenance suggests he’s very carefully picking through his words—sorting through some kind of internal battle.

It’s clear that Harry knows something that’s been tearing him apart, and as much as Draco hates Wells, and will wholeheartedly enjoy seeing the bastard go down, he wishes for Harry’s sake that Wells could have been a better man—or at least a better coach—and that none of this had happened. 

“All he ever does is push us to be our best,” Harry continues, though Draco’s sure the weak attempt at reassurance is more for Harry’s benefit than any real attempt to convince Draco. “I don’t know why you never gave him a chance.”

Draco doesn’t want to push, not when it seems that Harry may finally be on the verge of admitting that Wells fucked up big time, but then he meets Draco’s gaze, and they might as well be sharing each other's thoughts because Harry’s shoulders sag.

"I know,” Harry says miserably. “I _know_ it looks bad, but I wanted—I _need_ to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You can’t. He’s an abusive piece of shit. Maybe he hides the worst from you, but I’ve seen it myself. And if he’s involved in this, you can’t deny he’s hurting the team, not making it better.” Draco pauses, not sure how Harry will take it, but he can’t stop himself from continuing. “The worst fucking part is that he’s hurting you, too, Harry. Can’t you see that?”

Harry’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “He’s the only reason I’m still on the team. He trained me. Got me through some… really awful shit. You don’t know the half of it, Draco. I can’t just—” His voice trails off into a heavy silence.

This time, Draco is the one to make contact, resting his hand on Harry’s and leaving it there until Harry acknowledges him, turns his palm upwards and holds on tight.

“Tell me.” 

“I can’t lose Quidditch. I wouldn’t—” Harry squeezes Draco's hand.

“Harry. You are the best fucking Seeker in the League. Why on earth would you lose Quidditch because of Wells?”

Harry pulls his hand away and absently rubs at the scar above his brow then shakes his head as if clearing it. “I promised Ernie I’d convince you to meet with him,” he says, tone resigned. “That you’d listen to his side of things.”

Entirely aware of Harry’s smooth deflection but deciding to go along with it, Draco says, “Why should I? He’s stonewalled us all this time, why is he suddenly willing to talk?”

“Because he’s not the only one, and when those test results come out, I guarantee you everything will go tits up.”

Draco sits back, feeling almost breathless “How many?”

"I don’t know.” Harry’s brow furrows as he contemplates his ale. “Ernie won’t tell me everything. He wants to make a formal statement. I think he’s hoping the IAQ ruling can be reversed or something in exchange.”

"He wants to cut a deal?” Draco says incredulously. “It’s too late for that, Harry, he’s already been banned!”

“But what if he doesn’t deserve it,” Harry says, gaze desperate. “What if he had no choice?”

“You keep saying that, but he had a choice. We always have a choice.”

“Not with Coach.” Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single tab that Draco instantly recognises as Adrenisine, a Speed Chaser notorious for its massive energy spikes, delirious come downs, and the fact that it is extremely addictive. He pops it, swallowing it down with his ale, hands shaking, and then he meets Draco’s stunned gaze. “He hooks you… controls you. Makes you feel like you won’t survive without it.” He shrugs and gives a self-deprecating smile. “I just always thought I was the only one.”

It’s similar to being kicked hard in the stomach—Draco knows the feeling well, it was one of Greyback’s favourite tactics—the air rushes out from his chest in a harsh breath, and then, before he can even take stock of his actions, he pulls his chair over to Harry’s side of the table and sits close to him. “How long?”

“Since Aerovane.”

“Merlin’s sake…” This close, he can appreciate Harry’s familiar scent, how the nearness of him sinks beneath Draco’s skin. He cups Harry’s cheek, for once not caring what it may reveal if anyone will see, or what it means. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I didn’t want you to know there was something wrong with me.” Harry’s gaze drops to his lap. “The nightmares never went away.” His voice is quiet with shame, and Draco has a sharp and sudden urge to break something. He remembers nights at Aerovane, waking up to Harry’s screams, coaxing him back to sleep. They way their frequency had suddenly dropped. “I just learned how to hide it better. But, I needed to stay alert and I wasn’t sleeping. I never fucking sleep…” Draco slides his fingers across the back of Harry’s skull, his nails scratching against the surprisingly soft, short hairs there. Harry meets his gaze again. “I trusted him, and I thought it was normal. When Coach tells you to do something, you do it. He tells you to take something, you take it. And once you take it. You can’t stop.”

“Fucking hell, Harry, “ Draco says with a sigh. “You were never the only one.”

“I’m one of the lucky ones. It’s not performance-enhancing, so the IAQ didn’t pick it up. I won’t lose the most important thing in my life right now—and trust me, I know how pathetic that sounds.” He shakes his head and Draco drops his palm, leaning closer and resting it on Harry’s thigh instead. “But, Ernie needed something more, and Coach made him feel the same. That without it, he couldn’t play. That’s how Richard works. He _makes_ you feel powerless. And he makes you doubt yourself… even when you know what he’s doing isn’t right.”

Draco’s shaking his head even before he realises. “Macmillan still had a choice.”

“I thought you of all people would get that it’s not that simple.” Harry’s gaze is fierce, though his eyes are red and so fucking tired. “That you’d know what it feels like.”

“ _Don’t_ compare this to that. I _did_ have a choice. I made the wrong ones and I faced the consequences.”

Harry scowls, pulling away and breaking the closeness between them. “So. What. If we can blame Macmillan, can’t we blame me, too? Should I turn myself into the IAQ?”

“Of course not. Adrenisine is legal and he hooked you on purpose.” Draco holds on to his patience only by telling himself that Harry’s probably running on agony and grief and very little sleep. “You’ve been in the crosshairs of an abusive psychopath for years.”

“So were you!”

“ _Stop_ trying to compare us. Please. You’re a good person. You don’t deserve any of the things Wells did. Neither does Macmillan, but he violated regulations and there are consequences.”

“Draco,” Harry says softly. “You’re a good person, too.”

It’s times like this he’s reminded he’ll never deserve Harry—how could anyone witness to the awful things Draco’s done with his life and still believe he’s a good person? “I’m serious, Harry, we’re not doing this.”

“You’re never kind to yourself…” Draco starts to get out of his chair, fully intending to pack it in, but Harry tugs his palm, and he sits again. “I’m done,” Harry says. “All I’m saying is that the consequences should be fair.”

The look Harry give him makes it clear that he doesn’t only mean the consequences that Macmillan is facing, but those that Draco faces every day of his life. But as far as Draco is concerned, _his_ consequences are no more than he deserves, so he doesn’t acknowledge it. “It _was_ fair, given the information that was available to the IAQ. If Macmillan had just been honest—” Harry bristles, obviously eager to argue again, but Draco holds up a hand to cut him off. “I can’t stop the investigation, but I will meet with him. At the very least there’s new evidence we need to consider.”

“And you’ll hold off on sentencing anyone else on the team? At least keep the test results private until Ernie can make a statement?” 

Draco gives him a look. “I said I’m not promising anything, okay?”

Harry nods, and for a while, they just sit there, close enough to feel each other’s heat. The feel of Harry’s stubbly cheek still burns Draco’s palm and Harry’s gaze slowly roams the planes of Draco’s face, as if taking him in properly for the first time. When his gaze drops to Draco’s mouth and lingers there, Draco’s breaths grow shallow.

“I like the way your hair is now,” Harry says suddenly.

The only way Draco can think to respond to that unexpected compliment is to run his fingers through his perpetually over-styled hair self-consciously as his face grows hot. “Pansy’s doing.” She had accurately guessed that Draco was in a funk and had taken him to her stylist, who had cut his hair and arranged it into a fluffy, yet sophisticated mess that Draco relies on spells to maintain.

He wants to say more, but the way Harry’s looking at him now takes his breath away. Not for the first time, he wishes he could be more of a Gryffindor. Maybe then he’d be brave enough to lay his cards on the table and say what they both already know. This thing between them is much more than old enemies rubbing one out together in fits of boredom. That they’re so much more than casual. That they can be _good_ together. That they always have been.

They’ve never been fuckbuddies no matter how much they’ve pretended otherwise. Draco has never rung a _fuckbuddy_ up at three in the morning to just talk, he wouldn’t cross the channel just to see his fuckbuddy tear up the pitch with his team. Fuckbuddies don’t lay themselves bare to each other in soft whispers in the dark. Don’t hold each other’s hands for hours through nightmares and cold sweats and memories that won’t let go.

“I have to get back to base.” Harry’s soft voice brings him back to earth, and he wonders vaguely how long he’s been sitting there, staring into Harry’s eyes like an idiot.

“Oh. All right.” 

Neither of them makes a move to leave, and before Harry even smiles the way he does when he’s about to suggest they go off somewhere to fuck, Draco can already see it happening.

Harry heading slowly to the loo, a look thrown over his shoulder. Draco following closely behind as he’s always done, eager to have just a piece of Harry to keep. Harry will lead them into a stall and get on his knees and Draco will try to cast a Silencing Charm, but Harry will stop him because he’s always loved it when people can hear them. He’ll grin wickedly around Draco cock when Draco tries to pull him up for a kiss because all he wants is to be _inside_ Harry, but Harry will tease him for as long as possible, until Draco can’t stand it anymore and he’ll roughly tug Harry to his feet, spin him around and fuck him hard against the stall door, hard enough so that it rattles, and everyone will hear them—will hear how good Harry takes it, how good he begs, how completely he gives himself every time, and Draco will come inside him, and it will be filthy and it will be quick because that’s what fuckbuddies do. They fuck in secret, in pub bathrooms and shady hotels, on park benches, in dark cinema corners. And maybe that’s all they are, after all.

Maybe it’s time for Draco to bid all of that goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Draco’s usually the first on his floor at the IAQ, but the following morning, without even the blessing of a black coffee—he’d been plagued by dreams of a world in which Harry had forgotten him completely—he’s greeted by Oliver Wood waiting only steps away from the lift. 

At the height of his success, Wood had stunned the wizarding community by ending his professional Quidditch career and joining the offices of the IAQ, and only six years later, he’s made his way all the way up the ranks. Now he serves as the head of Internal Affairs, which makes Wood’s appearance on Draco’s floor—reserved for the Investigative and Regulatory board—an ill fucking omen indeed. Draco never even seen Wood on this floor before, but any day without a visit from IA is a good day. 

Apparently today is about to be the shittiest.

If IA is suddenly interested in Draco’s investigation, everything’s likely about to go tits up and his promise to Harry is fucked. There’s no hiding key points of an investigation—like test results for instance—from IA. Wood makes a beeline for Draco as he steps off the lift, a thick manila folder in his hand and a worrisome look on his prematurely aging face, and Draco stops in his tracks. 

“That’s my case file,” he says dully. 

For confidentiality reasons, Draco’s case files are warded—inaccessible to lower level IAQ employees and even the board. The only people able to access them are James Cumberland, the head of the IAQ, and of course, IA. No one likes receiving an owl saying their files have been accessed by IA, but that the head of IA himself has braved the lifts to the lower levels to confront him is… 

Terrifying. 

“Yes, it is.” Wood waves him over. “Walk with me.”

Draco slings his bag over his shoulder ruffling his jacket, his heart racing, and speeds up his steps to keep up with Wood. “Is IA taking over?”

“No,” Wood says brusquely, his Scottish brogue echoing off the walls of the mostly silent office floor. “You’re still lead.”

At that, Draco almost stumbles on absolutely nothing—either IA is leading him out to pasture to cast a curse at the back of the head, or they actually trust him even after whatever intel Wood is about to reveal.

Wood leads them to an empty meeting room, much larger than Draco’s closet-sized office, notable for its sweeping view of the Thames. Its decor is worlds away from the rest of the slightly dingy-looking office, which appears more like the writer’s floor of the _Daily Prophet_ than the main hub of an international federation. 

The meeting room more closely resembles the library at Hogwarts, with a large rectangular oak table in its very centre surrounded by comfortable walnut-colored leather chintz chairs. The warm fireplace tucked beneath an oak mantle on the west wall is connected to the Floo Network for access to their international offices, as well as for important visitors. It's not the kind of meeting room lowly IAQ employees who’ve barely made a name for themselves are given access to, and this makes Draco even more apprehensive than before.

Wood gestures for him to sit and then follows suit, settling himself at the head of the table as Draco sits at his left. Wood unbuttons his jacket and loosens his tie as he lets out a heavy sigh and meets Draco’s gaze across the table. “Cumberland is in the wind,” he says without preamble. James Cumberland, head of the IAQ, had been one of the last of Lucius’ lackeys still left after the massive upheaval of the board only a few years prior. “We've been investigating him for a few months under suspicion of corruption.” His gaze turns flinty. “It seems someone’s tipped him off.”

Draco’s mouth drops open against his will. “Am I under suspicion?”

“What?” Wood looks at him with an expression of bemusement that borders on impatience. “No. Cumberland was under investigation for colluding with Richard Wells in a cover-up for his doped-up players.” Wood drops the folder on the desk and slides it over to Draco. “I put a rush on the tests you requested, and you were right. O’Malley and Greene. They’ve each tested positive for Quidesorol, just like Macmillan. Congratulations, there’s your first big case sorted.” He rubs his face with his palms as Draco takes the folder. “The IAQ is about to head face-first into a maelstrom of utter shite.” 

Draco skims the test results, though at this point it’s completely moot. “Has this already gone through to the board?” 

“Everyone knows. You’re set to head a press conference in”—Wood checks his watch—“fifteen minutes. Lifetime bans for both of them. They took the damned things, so they should know what’s coming, and we have to be as swift and transparent as possible.”

“That’s... extremely swift.” Too fucking swift. Lightspeed even. How the fuck is he meant to get word to Harry before announcing to the world that his teammates are banned from Quidditch? 

Seemingly unaware of Draco’s _own_ internal maelstrom, Wood continues. “This makes the whole fucking sport look bad, not to mention Macmillan was drafted to play for England.” Woods takes the case file back, only to flip through it restlessly, clearly not taking in a word. “We can’t prove he was on PEPs for the cup final but, between you and me, I’m certain he was. The New Zealand team have already asked for an investigation, and they’re saying that we can’t be trusted because we’re partial to England—which we both know is true. We’re fucked. I’m recommending holding off the start of the European League until we sort this out.”

The Euro Cup has never been postponed in more than a century of existence, so Wood must feel like the situation is dire. Draco sets the folder down carefully. “Wood there’s… an aspect of the investigation that I’ve only just been made aware of. It’s… extremely pertinent to the case and might possibly affect your ruling on the players.”

“Speak English, man,” Wood says, looking near to tears. “What the fuck’s happened now?”

“I may have evidence that the players were pressured into taking PEPs,” Draco says in a rush. “Macmillan is willing to testify that Wells used abusive tactics to force him to take them.”

Wood stares at him blankly for a few seconds and then leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his folded palms. “You believe him?”

"I do,” Draco says, thinking of Harry’s face at the pub. “I’m sure O’Malley and Greene would corroborate.” Draco hesitates. “We should wait before we hold a press conference.”

“Coercion is extremely difficult to prove.” 

“But let’s at least hear him out. If the others corroborate, then Macmillan has a case.”

Wood shakes his head. “He’ll have a case for an appeal. He’s already been sentenced, and so have O’Malley and Greene, they just don’t know it yet.” Wood studies Draco’s face and then sighs heavily, leaning back in his seat and pulling at the end of his tie. “Malfoy, I appreciate the moral dilemma you’re facing here, but the fact is they failed the tests. That alone is an automatic lifetime ban. If further evidence comes in after today, it will be taken into consideration for an appeal. For now”—Wood stands, taking the case file with him—“we have an obligation to the sport and that means taking action.”

Draco stands as well, resting his hand on the back of his chair, thinking only of Harry is going to take this. “Wood... Oliver, I _really_ think we should wait on this.”

“We can’t. The press conference is happening, accept it. I can’t go to the board with evidence I don’t have, and Macmillan is not here.” He walks to the door and holds it open. “If you want me to hear Macmillan out, I have time at 14:00. Get him here.” 

Draco nods, and Wood leaves the meeting room, the door closing shut behind him without making a sound.

The press conference is quickly arranged and goes off without a hitch. With his heart pounding in his chest, Draco lets the world at large know that Callum O’Malley and Parker Greene have both received lifetime bans along with their teammate and English Chaser, Ernie Macmillan, for the use of Quidesorol.

He’s not allowed by the IAQ to comment on Cumberland since IA is still in the thick of their investigation—Wood can’t seem to admit it, but they simply don’t have enough evidence to charge him with anything anyway—but when he announces the postponement of the European League, there is an uproar in the small conference room, and Draco had raised his hands to quell the fury, and then fielded questions. For the first time in his life he’d felt as though his position at the IAQ is real. That he isn’t a joke after all.

After the conference, Wood corners him just as he ends yet another unanswered call to Harry on his mobile.

“Interview at 14:00, yes?”

Draco clenches his jaw, vaguely considering tossing his mobile at Wood’s head. “I’m working on it.”

“That’s the best the window you’ve got,” Wood says, walking backwards away from Draco in the direction of the lift. “If we get Cumberland I’m sure the little shite is gonnae sing on Wells.” Draco nods, already aware where Wood is going with this. “That’ll be enough to hit Wells with, but your source is the only one with evidence of player coercion, so if he wants a say in this case…”

“I’ve got it, Wood.” 

Wood holds up is hands in an apparent “ _Sorry mate_ ” gesture and Draco retreats to his office, pulling off his jacket and tie and resorting to pacing the room as he tries Harry on his mobile for the third time in the last hour and a half.

No doubt Harry had heard the conference on the WWN… but there had been no time to warn him, or get word to Macmillan, and now he’s ignoring Draco’s calls again and it’s reminiscent of the last few months where Harry so easily vanished from his life. It’s just like his dreams and that’s enough to make it hard for Draco to breathe, but he does. 

He takes one slow breath after the other and pushes up his sleeves. Just as he’s about to make another go at calling Harry, the door to his office bursts open, banging loudly against one of Draco’s file cabinets, and Draco almost drops his mobile. Of course it’s Harry barging in, his leather jacket and black scarf askew, his face a thundercloud. 

“What the fuck?!”

“I know.”

“You said you would wait,” Harry continues, his low voice hitting a range of fury that Draco's definitely been privy to more than once in his life. 

Draco rushes around him and closes the door to his office, casting a _Muffliato_ and locking the door, just in case.

He turns to find an expression on Harry’s face that reminds him too much of being back at school, and his entire body begins to turn stony in response—his default unrepentant arsehole persona kicking in. 

He does his best to temper it.

“I know what I said, but _are you completely crazy_?” Draco’s says almost breathlessly. “You realise that everyone will know that you were my source if they see you now.”

Harry seems to visibly shake with his anger. “You think I give a shit? O’Malley and Greene are _banned_ and now Ernie thinks I screwed him over.”

“Harry, I’m sorry, all right,” he says. “Wood didn't give me much of a choice.”

Harry gives him a look that could cut glass and Draco immediately recognises his blunder. “ _Choice_?! You're the one who fucking said—” 

Draco walks over and gently rests his hands on Harry’s shoulders, the cold leather of his jacket chilling his fingers. “I know,” he says, surprised when Harry doesn’t try to pull away. “Merlin. I know. I was wrong. Okay? Sometimes shit gets bloody fucked to hell, and I get that now. I’m trying to help. Just give me some fucking credit, won’t you?”

“But why couldn’t you _wait_? Was getting a leg up in this… bureaucratic rubbish pile _that_ important?”

Draco stills and steps away, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Are you serious?”

“I don’t know! Last night you were…” Harry begins to pace, his tread shaky, his movements almost manic. “God! You just have this… this _way_.” He stops and points a shaking finger at Draco, his chest heaving. He looks caught between either breaking down in tears or punching Draco in the stomach and Draco very much wants to shake some bloody sense into him. “You have this way of making me believe everything you say is true and _real_ and things will be fine. That you care. About me. But I ask for this one thing.” The words are spilling from Harry’s mouth in unsteady bursts as if he’s forcing himself to form the words. “It feels like you were just using me to get the intel you needed.”

“I swear to Merlin, you are the bloody end.” Draco steadies Harry again and then pats him down, eventually reaching into his pocket and pulling out his mobile, waving it in Harry’s stunned face. “Have you checked this, you wanker? I’ve been calling you all morning.” 

Harry takes the phone from him and pokes at it, his expression beginning to droop when nothing happens and the screen remains blank. “It’s dead. I always forget about charging it.”

Draco puts his hands on Harry’s shoulders again, speaking slowly so that Harry gets it through his thick skull. “Harry. I’m sorry, but I could not wait on this. I don’t know how much power you think I have here, but trust me, it’s a modicum of what Wood can do. He’s running the show whether I’m ‘lead’ on this case or not.”

“Wait. Wood put you up to this?” Harry says, wiping quickly at his face as if to hide any hint of his previous outburst. “But he’s not even in your department.”

“I’m not going to ask how you know that,” Draco says dryly. “But for fuck’s sake, Harry, why is it always so easy for you to believe the worst of me? I make one wrong step and it’s as if I’m back at the bottom of the well and I have to climb my way to the top all over again.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says simply, “I’m... a fucking mess right now. I—” He sighs. “I told Hermione everything. I mean, about Wells and the Quidesorol. She’s taking Ernie’s case, and I wanted to help however I could.”

Something in Draco’s chest aches, and he wants to touch Harry again, so he does, lightly caressing his face, and then letting his hand fall away again. “That’s so like you.”

“She thinks I shouldn’t take the Adrenisine any more.”

Draco studies him more carefully, and the slight trembling of Harry’s hands becomes more apparent as the full-body tremor that it is. “So naturally you’ve done that in one fell swoop, not bothering to taper off a highly addictive substance, during one of the most stressful times of your life.”

Harry shrugs, looking so hopelessly at sea that Draco tugs him into a hug, a little taken aback when Harry immediately returns it, clinging on to Draco’s sides like a Demiguise. Draco leans back and kisses his forehead. “Will you please fucking trust me?”

Harry closes his eyes briefly, but his arms tighten around Draco’s waist. “I really am trying.”

Draco walks them both backward until Harry’s back is up against Draco’s oversized cabinet. It rattles ominously, the Snitch replica resting at its top fluttering about like a bat in a cage before settling again. Draco cups Harry’s cheeks with both hands and gives him a little shake. “I said I’ll do the best I can for your teammates, and I will, okay?”

Harry nods jerkily. “I’m sorry… I keep saying the wrong things—” 

Draco kisses his forehead again and pulls away to give Harry his phone. “I need you to get Macmillan on the phone, or better yet, Granger—”

“Weasley.” 

“Whatever. Get them here as soon as possible. Wood is willing to hear his testimony, but there are… complications.” 

Harry’s brows rise to his hairline, the scar on his eyebrow wrinkling thickly. “What kind of complications?”

“I can’t give you details.” Draco puts a finger on Harry’s mouth before he can protest. “All I’ll say is that Internal Affairs is conducting their own investigation, and it’s collided with mine.”

Draco makes to step away from Harry so that he can make his call, but Harry stops him by hooking one finger through his belt loop and keeping it there while he dials. Even as he talks to Granger and eventually gets Macmillan on the phone, Draco’s thoroughly distracted by Harry’s wandering hand slowly pulling Draco shirt from his trousers, trailing the sensitive flesh above his hip bone. He doesn’t register a single word Harry’s saying, only knows that there’s a conversation happening because of the steady thrum of Harry’s low voice, so familiar now that Draco could pick it out in his sleep. He has to put his hand over Harry’s to stop his little exploration so he can focus and tune-in like an actual professional. 

“Yes… Ernie, I believe him…” Harry pauses, lifting his bright gaze to Draco’s. He looks so young and perfect, and Draco wants more than anything to kiss him. “Yes. I trust him… If that’s what you need, bring her… Yes.” Another pause. “All right. We’ll be here.”

Harry ends the call and says, “He won't say anything without Hermione in the room. She can be there, can’t she?”

Draco nods. “Yes, she should be.”

Harry slips Draco’s phone into his back pocket, then places his hand to their previous torture points on Draco’s waist. “They should be here soon.” 

Draco swallows thickly and nods. “I’ll have to notify Wood.”

Harry nods again, and then without warning, tugs Draco forward, lifting himself up on his toes to meet Draco’s mouth in his kiss. Draco’s response is immediate and almost overwhelming. He cups Harry’s cheek, again, tasting the remnants of the ginger tea Harry habitually inhales in the mornings, the sweetness of some kind fruit, like blueberry jam or maybe raspberry scones? Harry breathes a soft sound into Draco’s mouth, and Draco deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue against Harry’s in that warm, familiar sweep.

They’ve always kissed as if they’ve known each other this way for decades, like lovers through time, their bodies recalling what their minds cannot. Harry digs his fingers into Draco’s waist, and without either of them trying very hard at it at all, the kiss grows heated. Harry scrabbles between them to get at Draco’s fly, the flat palm of his hand already cupping Draco’s hard cock through the fabric.

When they separate for a breath, Harry nips the underside of Draco’s chin and he groans deeply, thankful that he thought to cast Privacy Charms.

“I wanted this the moment I saw you yesterday,” Harry says, sweeping a palm over the thin fabric covering Draco’s chest. “You’re stunning. Everything about you. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this.”

Harry kisses him again, threading his fingers into Draco’s hair and moaning softly into his mouth. Draco wants nothing more than to sink into the moment, but he can’t. Not anymore. With great reluctance, he gently removes Harry’s palms, separating himself from his touch and creating space between them. He steps back and runs his fingers hastily through his hair, then quickly fixes his flies while Harry watches him with an expression of shock, his clothes rumpled, thick lips red and bruised and _oh_ how much Draco wants to forget about this momentary jolt of self-preservation for his heart, and give in to his body. To walk back into Harry’s arms and let him take anything he wants, _do_ anything he wants.

But, no.

“I can’t,” Draco says quietly. “Not like this.”

Harry pushes himself off the cabinet and studies Draco closely, looking torn between confusion and hurt.

“Trust me, I want to. More than anything. I just…” Draco sighs heavily. “I want more than this.” He gestures to their surroundings. “A quick fuck against my office cabinet—though Merlin knows it’s been a fantasy of mine for years.” Draco sighs. “Harry, I just want you. Properly. In a bed for once and…” He takes a breath and rallies himself, knowing that what he’s about to say is something he won’t be able to take back. “I want to fuck you knowing you’re mine.”

“I—” Harry clears his throat, folds his arms across his chest. His gaze flicks away and back like a wild animal caught in a trap, and Draco steels himself for the inevitable rejection. _Yes, Draco this was fun and all, but how could I possibly be yours when you’re not even close to being my equal._

But all Harry says is, “You’re serious…” in a voice so low with shock that Draco chances a look to gauge his expression. His stomach drops somewhere beneath his uselessly expensive boots when he catches a flicker of what looks like pity.

“I am,” Draco says, squaring his shoulders and smoothing his shirt flat against his chest with his palm, anything to avoid Harry's gaze and seeing that _look_ again. At least now he knows where he stands. “I know it’s not what you want but I can’t…” Draco shakes his head, stopping himself from getting into all that because what’s the point? “Look it doesn’t matter. Maybe this thing between us has run its course.”

“Hang on.” Harry's voice is high with apparent anxiety. Draco retreats a few steps further and walks around his desk, looking for something to pick up to make himself seem busy.

“At least give me a minute to process this.”

Draco picks up an arbitrary file and checks his watch. “We don’t have time. I have to get word to Wood and set up this meeting.” He waves his wand and removes the Privacy Spells. The door to his office swings open, effectively closing any opportunity for further conversation, and Harry—so obviously willing to take the escape he’s been granted—doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there quietly observing Draco as Draco tries his very best to pretend that this moment has meant nothing to him.

He’s fine, and the world will continue on tomorrow just as it had begun today. “Harry. It’s okay… you don’t have to… do anything you don’t want.”

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at Draco as if observing a wild creature for the first time.

Draco gestures to the door of his office. “After you.”

Harry hesitates only a moment longer, straightens his clothes, and heads out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Hermione Granger is so well known for playing hardball that there’s a collective groan when she shows up with Macmillan in tow. With her usual brusqueness, she sets down the terms of Macmillan’s testimony: not only should Wood and Draco sign magically binding statements agreeing to her terms, but that the entire board (sans Cumberland) bear witness to Ernie’s full testimony and that the IAQ must show a willingness to negotiate the terms of Macmillan’s—and by extension his teammates’—sentence. 

“That’s steep Granger, and you know it.” Wood says from his corner. “We’re doing Macmillan a favour, hearing him out this late in the game.” He points a finger at Macmillan across the table. “You stonewalled us for months, you remember that, don’t you?”

Macmillan scowls and goes to say something, but Granger puts a hand on his forearm. 

She nods in Wood’s direction. “Something tells me you might be a little desperate for intel on James Cumberland at the moment.”

Wood sits up in his seat, glancing a Draco. “What makes you think we care a shite for Cumberland?”

While it would be nice if Granger could have considered the possible implications of that statement—the presumption that Draco had leaked information on IA’s investigation—it’s kind of a pleasure seeing her in action. 

“My client can provide irrefutable proof of Cumberland’s direct involvement in the coverup of unregulated and sometimes illegal potion use, in the procurement of the PEPs and, most importantly, a credible lead to his current location.”

Wood sits back heavily in his seat, looking as though he’s swallowed an egg. After a moment, he waves his long fingers for the parchment in Granger’s hands, scowling even as it floats towards him. He signs with an expertly lacklustre expression and without further comment, and waves Draco to follow suit.

It takes all bloody afternoon to get everyone together, but they listen to Ernie’s testimony well into the middle of the night. At the end of it, the story of how Wells had continually used verbal and sometimes physical intimidation to force him and others to take the PEPs was unfathomable. Wells had cited repercussions (including setting them up for injury, blackballing them from the League, and withholding medical aid), and these details leaves the team and most of the board looking ill at the extent of Wells and Cumberland’s greed, their unethical tactics and their capacity for abuse. 

Macmillan even supplies them with a sample of the Quidesorol, making it finally possible to track the source and determine the potioneer, who might further be able to corroborate Cumberland’s involvement, if not Wells’. 

The board chooses to break the hearing after three hours, with an intention to deliberate on the the player sentences within the following days. Draco isn’t allowed to weigh in, he can only give his recommendations along with his case files to the board, but Merlin help anyone willing to cross Hermione Granger. 

However, it is the detainment of Richard Wells—carried out in the early hours of the following morning—that Draco has been looking forward to most. Even if it means he’s been at work for almost twenty-four hours, Draco remains. Watching him shuffle through the small crowd of IAQ staff who stayed back to see him detained is one of the most pleasurable moments of his long, fucked-up day.

Wells walks with his shoulders slumped, flanked on either side by two Aurors Draco doesn’t recognise. When he claps eyes on Draco, every line in face droops, and his mouth turns down into vicious scowl. The Aurors beside him grow stiff with tension, but Draco only puts his hands in his pockets and turns his back on the old fool, fully prepared to walk away and never think about Wells again.

That is until Wells yells, “They’ll know who your snitch is, Malfoy.”

The hairs at the back of his neck prickle and Draco turns around, sneer already formed on his face. “That a threat?”

“My players are loyal,” Wells spits, even as the Aurors close in on him. “Who are you loyal to, you bootlicking piece of shit? You think he’s innocent in all this? He’s got his own secrets he should be ashamed of!”

Draco nods to the two Aurors, standing at the ready but seemingly confused as to what’s going on. “Take him.”

In the weeks following, the IAQ holds another press conference, this time with Wood at the helm. He officially reduces the sentence for Macmillan, O’Malley and Greene to five years rather than a lifetime, and announces that England is to forfeit their World Cup title to New Zealand. This seems to send the English wizarding public into a strange sort of collective depression, but watching Macmillan’s eyes fill with tears at the news is what hits Draco the hardest.

With Cumberland having been found holed up in a council flat in Leeds, the case is, for the most part, closed, but the IAQ as a whole is in crisis. 

After the press conference, Oliver pulls him aside, the grey at his temples seemingly doubled in the past week and a half. “I know you have a personal stake in this Draco,” he says. “So I want to hear it from you.” 

Draco raises his eyebrows, but allows himself to be pulled away from the crowd still leaving the first-floor lobby. “What d’you think about everything we’ve learned? Do you think the IAQ is responsible for some of it? Aside from blatantly corrupt twats like Cumberland. Morally, I mean, is there something more we should have done?”

Stunned at having been asked his opinion on a moral stance, Draco mentally stumbles a bit before simply blurting, “Yes.” Wood gestures for him to go on, gently directing them out of the way of another group of reporters heading to the exit. “We’re the International Association of Quidditch. We should be doing more than scheduling and monitoring the rule books. We should be taking care of the players. Wells was able to go unchecked for too long and that’s on us.”

Wood grins and pats his back. “Good man,” he says, looking as though Draco’s told him exactly what he expected him to say. “Write up a report—any measures you think we should put in place to prevent something like this happening again. I’m giving you a week. I’ll review it and we’ll present it to the board. Maybe they’ll listen. Maybe they won’t.” 

After that, Draco’s days slowly become consumed with research, with him even delving into studying the practices of the regulatory boards of Muggle sports—random drug testing, mental health checks, team fines for ‘bad behaviour’—to see what he can recommend, if only to shake things up for the IAQ. Merlin knows they need it.

In all this time, he hasn’t once heard from Harry, something he’s been trying to put to the corners of his mind and pretend it doesn’t bother him. But it does. Of course it does. His mind is plagued with nightmares, as if to keep reminding him of what he’s missing. He can barely get through the days without some reminder of Harry—every sports headline in the last week has mentioned Harry or his team in some way or the other. The Falcons have been under heavy scrutiny and criticism, not just from journalists or the general public, but the entire sport, its players, and the IAQ themselves.

So when, after another long day in the office finishing up paperwork, he steps into his flat to see Harry’s owl, a brown tawny called Stel, he stops dead in the middle of his kitchen. He doesn’t really move until Stel, impatient with Draco’s indecision, flies over to him and lands messily onto his outstretched hand. 

“Hello, you,” he says, fluffing her feathers in the way she likes. 

She nips him softly as he unfolds Harry’s missive, his hands shaking. He reaches into the small tin he keeps with owl treats to offer her one, only to find she must have helped herself because it’s empty. “How long have you been here, girl?” he murmurs, rustling her feathers again. She allows it, then teeters to the open window above his kitchen sink and flies off into the night. 

He checks his watch; it’s already after nine. Maybe it’s a summons to the pub, like old times? An invitation for a quick fuck? Maybe Draco should get himself drunk enough to push his idiotic half declaration aside and give in—go to some bar and fuck Harry in a back room like they’ve done countless times before. An empty fuck. Or worse, engage a casual sit down as friends, like some sort of attempt to spread an emotional balm over the scrapes of Draco’s botched confession. Something to make them both forget and move on. 

Draco’s not sure he can bear it. 

He unfolds the letter but doesn’t read it just yet, instead crossing the room to find his half-drunk bottle of whiskey. He uncaps it and swigs from the bottle in a manner most unbecoming, as his mother would say. After another swig, he squares his shoulders and reads, skimming over the words so quickly that at first, they hold no meaning at all.

 _I’m not sure if this will mean anything now, but the wards on my flat have always been open to you. It would be nice to see you._

This is followed by a bit of something that’s been scratched out—a fairly long bit—and then, at the very bottom, Apparition coordinates… as though Draco doesn’t already have them memorised.

Draco stares stupidly at the letter for ages, sets it down on his countertop, then proceeds to drain the remnants of his whiskey, tossing it into the sink with a _clank_ when he’s finished. Suddenly too warm, he removes his outer jacket—wizard made, but with more of a Muggle twist—and begins to pace. Beneath, he’s only wearing one of his usual crisp shirts, but he still feels too hot, so he unbuttons the top buttons and rolls up his sleeves, all the while pacing the room, thinking about what he should do.

He’s always thought of Harry's home as off-limits. He knows where it is of course—when Harry and Lovegood were roommates, she held a Christmas party there where Draco had spent two miserable hours pretending not to be bothered that Harry seemed disinclined to acknowledge him. Well, he had acknowledged Draco, but only as an acquaintance, not someone he had spent hours fucking not three weeks previous, not even as a friend.

Then there was the disaster of last Christmas, when Draco had drank entirely too much wine at Pansy’s and allowed himself to be convinced to attempt a sweeping romantic gesture towards whomever it was he was moping about—he’s certain that if Pansy had known it was Harry, she would have never let him try—and he’d turned up at Harry's only to be greeted at the door by a flustered and confused-looking Ginny Weasley—who was… obviously used to spending nights at the flat. She had looked in the middle of a post-Harry hangover—Draco knows exactly what that feels like—and when she had disappeared to fetch Harry, Draco had done the dignified thing and Apparated away. 

They’d never spoken of it, and that’s just how Draco likes it. If they could move on from Draco's latest blunder, maybe he could suck it up and recalibrate, learn how to be friends with Harry again. To not have expectations. 

_Yes. That’s exactly what we’ll do._

He squares his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair—not bothering to renew the spells that make him look put together—and Disapparates.

When he lands in Harry’s kitchen , the wards wrap around him warmly, and after caressing his shoulders with the shadows of Harry’s magic, they abruptly leave him be.

The kitchen is dark, though there’s the smallest of Christmas trees on the countertop beside Harry’s refrigerator, lit by faerie lights and adorned by the tiniest floating ornaments—miniature photographs of Harry with his friends, Weasley’s children, other Weasleys, odd knick-knacks that clearly mean something to Harry: a Snitch, a Gryffindor lion, a miniature dragon. He observes all of this for far too long until he spins around at a loss, confused as to why Harry would tell him to come to an empty house.

Next to the tree is a tray of mince pies under a Warming Charm that can’t be more than a few hours old judging from its heat. A cursory walk through the house, each room richly decorated with warm coloured rugs, the wooden floors glossy and brightly reflecting the lights of several Christmas trees— _Merlin_ could Harry go any more overboard during the season?—reveals that the house is indeed empty. Even the room off the hallway at the very back of the house—the master that he knows is Harry’s—is empty.

Draco walks back to the kitchen, casts a Point-Me Spell, and is led to the backdoor that opens to Harry’s magically-enlarged back garden—a misnomer if you ask Draco; Harry had created a big bloody Quidditch pitch at the back of his house. He steps out into the biting cold and the icy layer of frost already on the ground, noticing with relief that the field lanterns are lit.

He casts a Warming Charm and looks around but sees nothing, only the vast dark field, hemmed in by the giant, now-leafless Aspen trees Harry had magically raised to heed off any particularly ambitious paps. Though the wards on his home are fortress-level, it’s always difficult to weave protective magic over a large field and there have been photogs just brazen enough to snapshots of a bleary-eyed Harry having tea on his back deck. 

When he has the presence of mind to look up, he finally spots the black dot in the sky approaching the ground at lightning speed before making a sharp left turn, in obvious pursuit of a Snitch. 

It’s always been a wondrous thing to watch Harry fly—the sleek line of his body, the way man and broom become one, the agility of his turns—it’s nothing short of mesmerising. There’s more than one manoeuvre named after him—an embarrassment it seems Harry will never get past—and not one of them is an easy feat. In his years as a professional player, Harry’s made himself known for his fearlessness, his speed on the boom, and his ability to change course at the flip of a Galleon. Draco’s sure he could put Harry on a bloody Comet and he’ll still outfly Draco any day.

When he swoops past again, Draco notices the idiot is clad only in Quidditch leathers and a jumper, his legs covered with a pair of jeans and… for some unholy reason, there’s a piece of black cloth tied over half his face, covering his eyes. It seems, Harry thought it would be a great night to fly blindfolded and then, apparently, invite Draco to watch him die.

“For Circe’s sake.” 

Harry makes another sudden turn smooth as silk, gets lost in the trees, and Draco ventures further out to the field, wand at the ready in case the crazy bastard needs a Cushioning Charm for a fall. 

Suddenly Harry comes barrelling through the bare branches and Draco can hear the snap of them whipping backwards and rebounding hard, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice at all. Draco swears out loud before he can stop himself as Harry quickly rights himself and resumes his dive less than ten metres from the frozen earth. 

“Are you insane?!” 

Quick as a whip, Harry’s veers a sudden right as he darts out an ungloved hand—crazy bastard—and snatches the Snitch out of mid-air before slowing his rapid descent, landing on the icy ground and pulling off his blindfold. He holds the Snitch aloft with a broad grin, his eyes wide with joy. 

“I could hear you screaming at me from on the ground, you maniac,” he says, laughing. He crosses the grass to reach Draco and grabs him into an icy-cold hug.

 _“I’m_ the maniac?!” Draco’s caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to kiss that sexy-as-hell, windswept look off his face. 

“Let’s get inside, it’s bloody nippy out here.” 

“It’s a bit more than nippy you fly-crazy loon.”

Harry kisses the side of Draco’s head. His face is freezing, but it’s enough to shut Draco up for the duration of their walk. 

At the backdoor, Harry removes his boots, stopping Draco to do the same. Draco grumbles a bit but complies. He follows Harry through the kitchen, circling the rustic island in the centre of the kitchen as Harry peels off his damp clothes piece by piece, dumping them into a pile in the little washroom just off the entrance to the kitchen.

It’s impossible to see Harry so casually naked, bending over to pull on the pair of tracksuit bottoms that were flung in the small table in Harry’s breakfast nook, and not be ridiculously turned on. The man is objectively gorgeous, that much is obvious. His Quidditch-honed physique, his impressive chest, thick thighs, the abs Draco couldn’t acquire even if he did a thousand crunches a day—but beyond all of the physical is the mere fact that Harry is a man Draco’s felt connected to, in some way or another, for most of his life. 

Still, the physical is pretty bloody fantastic.

Particularly when Harry turns around, revealing the barbells in his nipples and the tattoos on his chest and arms that Draco’s always been ridiculously into. He hasn’t a clue why, they’re odd and don’t move, they’re monochrome, and maybe there are too many of them—mostly small abstract shapes filling in the gaps of the larger pieces on his chest and arms… but Merlin, are they beautiful against that pale expanse of skin. The broomsticks, the assortments of sweets, little oddments that look as though they’d fit comfortably on Dumbledore’s desk, the lilies and peonies across his chest, the vine that snakes its way all the way down his left bicep to his forearm, ending in the inside of his palm, the friendly-looking mutt on his right forearm. Draco takes all of this in quietly, hungrily, as the lust that has been burning a low flame in his belly since he spotted Harry in the sky begins to burn its way all over his body, making him want to bid a solemn fuck you to his previous qualms. But then Harry steps into the dim light of his miniature tree, and there’s something about the redness in Harry’s face and eyes that speak more of recently shed tears than of Harry being icily windswept. 

Harry grabs a mince pie and walks over to Draco, stopping directly in front of him to take a bite. Draco’s gaze is glued to Harry's mouth as he chews, the way he licks away an errant bit of pastry. He offers a piece and Draco bites into it. It’s melt-in-your-mouth perfect and he knows that Molly Weasley is the one to have sent them over. Which means that Harry was in need of comfort, and he had written to Draco hours ago and he hadn’t come. Draco swallows, closing the distance between them and resting his hand on Harry’s bicep.

“What’s happened?”

Harry tries for a smile and pops the remainder of the pie in his mouth. “Whatchomean?”

It’s a weak attempt, even without the shadows in his gaze, and the impromptu Snitch chase suddenly makes a lot more sense. Flying has always been a coping mechanism for Harry whenever he feels overwhelmed, and it’s always been difficult for Draco to tell if Harry's is flying for the team, or to escape his own head.

“Harry,” he says calmly. “Just talk to me.”

Harry lets out a small, humourless laugh and steps away to pull two beers from his fridge, popping them both open with a wandless charm before handing one to Draco.

“A lot of shit has happened since the case blew up, and you disappeared,” he says. “I don’t necessarily want to talk about it all.” 

“I didn’t disappear,” Draco says. “Truthfully, Harry, I’ve just been busy.”

Harry gives him a sceptical look and then he takes a pointed swig of his beer. 

“ _Okaaay_. Maybe I was… giving you time to process.”

“Bollocks. Suddenly you care about my need to process? You didn’t even give me five minutes back in your office.”

Draco leans his hip against the counter and picks at the label of his beer. “I already knew what you were going to say.”

“No you didn’t.” Harry gently redirects Draco’s label-picking fingers out of range. “You’ve spent these last few weeks hiding from me because I didn’t say what you wanted to hear when you wanted to hear it.”

Draco sets his bottle down with a clink, his anxiety rising with each second. “You’ve got a really low opinion of me,” he mutters.

“My opinion of you is based on what you let me see.” Harry’s rejoinder is quick, and when Draco ventures to meet his gaze, he finds those green eyes looking at him expectantly. “But you don’t let me see you very often, do you? Then when you do it’s… for half a second and I’m not even sure if it’s real.”

Draco closes his eyes briefly, unsure why his throat suddenly feels so thick. “It’s fucking real.”

Harry tucks a lock of Draco’s hair behind his ear, then gives it a gentle tug before letting his hand fall. “Then why wouldn’t you let me talk to you?”

“I was giving you an out.” Draco takes an extra-long sip of his beer to give himself time to think, then sets the bottle down again. Harry waves his hand, and the bottle slides across to the other side of the island, out of reach. “I’m not finished with that.”

Harry raises his brows, and Draco sighs. “You’ve made it clear you want to keep things casual. I’ve made it clear that I can’t do casual anymore. We’re at an impasse.”

“An _impasse_. Really…?”

“Yes. It’s when—"

“Don’t be a bloody arsehole Malfoy, I know what an impasse is.”

Draco closes the space between them as much as he can without seeming as though he’s trying to start something. “I don’t want to argue with you,” he says, gently touching Harry’s bicep. “Not when you look like you’ve had a shit couple of days. You wanted me here, so I’m here. Talk to me.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, and then it’s Harry’s turn to deflect by taking a drink. “I went to see him.”

“I—what? When?”

“A few days ago.”

Draco shakes his head, pushing off the island and pacing around to the other side to grab his beer again, but more so to create some distance between them. His protective instinct seems to be confusing Harry with Wells, because at the moment he wants to throttle Harry for putting himself in Wells’ reach yet again. “Why would you do that?”

“He was my coach for close to a decade, Draco,” he says quietly. “I needed some closure.”

“Did you get it? Or did he just take one last opportunity to shit on you?”

Harry’s vacant expression says all he needs to know and Draco curses beneath his breath, then knocks back the rest of his beer before Banishing the bottle to Harry’s sink.

“Do you feel any better for going, or do you only feel worse?” Harry shrugs, opens his mouth and closes it, but seemingly decides to not say anything at all. “Fuck’s sake, Harry, what did he say to you?”

“Not important. It’s over. I’m not seeing him again.”

Draco sighs, then returns to Harry’s side and pulls him into a hug. “I you ever feel the urge to do that again, please, _please_ take me with you.”

Harry nods into his shoulder, and then pulls away. “I’m only home because they’ve taken us off base. I guess the IAQ is doing a full sweep of the training camp. Looking for any remaining potions, or maybe through Wells’ stuff. I don’t fucking know.”

The board had decided to take a ‘no prisoners alive’ approach to trying to clear the League of all PEPs. Their general lack of humanity for the players is one of the points of focus in Draco’s report, and he makes a mental note to really focus on that during his presentation the following week.

“Wait, why are you here and not at Teller?” The Teller Inn is a bed and breakfast/pub the Falcons often frequent if they are off base at any point during the season.

“I was for a while, but the team…” Harry shrugs. “Well, they made it clear I wasn’t wanted.”

Draco stills “What exactly does that mean?”

“They checked me. It wasn’t too bad.”

 _Checking_ is usually reserved for players fresh to the team and involves the asinine practice of waiting for the player to sleep, grabbing them out of bed when they’re wandless and defenceless, and fucking with them somehow in a usually harmless way. Draco gets the feeling that nothing about Harry’s check was harmless. “What happened?”

Harry shrugged. “You know me… I freaked out. Or my magic did. Lashed out at a few of them. My wand was under my pillow so they couldn’t understand how I did it. They got in a few good hits.” 

“They know that you came to me.”

He laughs bitterly. “Oh yeah. Safe to say they know. I’m persona non grata as far as they’re concerned.” Harry rubs a hand over his eyes. “Since then it’s been… hostile. They ran a few practice matches in the field behind the inn. Wasn’t invited to that either.” Draco takes Harry’s hand and threads their fingers tighter as Harry takes a shuddering breath. “I cleared out and came home.”

“Harry, I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah. I reckon I lost Quidditch anyway.” He smiles grimly. “Doesn’t matter if the new coach still wants me, if I can’t be part of the team, I’m done.” 

Draco takes Harry’s hand and tugs him close. 

“I have to see a Mind Healer or else I lose my credentials. We all do.”

“Would that be so bad?” Harry’s expression flickers between stubbornness and capitulation “Harry, you could have called me. Even if you thought… even when we’re not on best terms, you can call me.”

“I could say the same for you.” 

“I know,” Draco says. “I’m sorry. I was being stupid. I didn’t want to hear you say you don’t want what I want.” 

“Maybe you’re afraid to hear that I do.” 

Harry touches Draco’s face and threads his fingers through Draco’s hair, pulling him forward and pressing their foreheads together. “I want you right now. In a proper bed. In my bed.”

Draco takes such a deep breath it actually vibrates in his chest, stuttering slowly out of his lungs with a painful ache. Precisely how ridiculous is his body going to be about this? 

Harry kisses Draco’s temple and he closes his eyes, head bowed as if in reverence. “I want you in my home”—a soft kiss on Draco’s brow—“in my space”—a kiss on the top of Draco’s nose—“you’re already in my heart.” 

“Merlin’s sake, Harry leave some air in the room will you?” 

Harry smiles against his skin and drops a soft kiss on Draco’s mouth. “I’m fucked up right now and my life’s a mess and I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this because you’re a lot to handle.” 

Draco lets out a wet laugh. “Charming.” 

Harry pulls away and touches Draco’s face again, the gesture so intimate, so knowing and unexpectedly romantic that Draco is certain that, yet again, Harry has underestimated himself. If anyone is ready for Draco and all the fucked up shit that comes along with him—the paps selling their photos, the looks when they go out in public, Draco’s mood swings and his many many faults—it’s Harry. Harry is the _only_ man in the world with the quality to handle him. To truly _know_ Draco and to love him anyway. Draco only hopes that with time he can become a man deserving of that quality. In the meantime, he can only try.

“I want this,” Harry continues. “I want more than before.” At this, Harry seems to stop himself, his green eyes reflecting the glinting Christmas lights in the darkened room, and Draco is sure he’s about to say something terrifying.

“You love me, don’t you?” 

“I… yes. Yes,” Draco says. Then he feels compelled to add, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Harry breathes without hesitation. “It’s a miracle, and I don’t understand it, but I think I’ve known for a while. You’ve shown me in every way you could.” 

“I thought I was hiding it well.” 

Harry smiles. “Please don’t,” he says, nudging Draco’s jaw with his nose. “You think I don’t know you come to every match. You check in with me if I’m down, you answer when I call. You’ve been telling me for years and I've been too caught up in my own shit to realise it.”

“We’ve both been bloody daft,” Draco says. “And I do those things because I love you, not because I want anything in return.”

“But you should. You deserve to be loved the way you love.” Harry cups Draco's cheeks fiercely. “I know I’m not saying what you need to hear, but—” 

“You are, Harry.” He leans forward and kisses Harry softly, deeply, and Harry shudders as if he’s been waiting all this time to _breathe_ , because his shoulders sag and the tension bleeds from him as he lifts up on his toes and wraps his arms around Draco’s neck. When they part for air he says, “I may not be able to say it back just yet.” 

“I’ll say it for both of us,” Draco murmurs. “Anytime you want.” 

“Say it now.” 

“I love you.” Draco leans in to kiss him again and Harry digs his fingers into the fabric of Draco’s shirt. On a whim he lifts Harry and sets him on the island with a grunt, settling into the space between Harry’s thighs and kissing his stubbly jaw.

“You should shave,” he says. “Less wind drag.”

Harry lets out a small laugh, looking down at Draco with a wide smile, his bright white teeth glinting in the dim light.

Draco rests his palms on either side of Harry’s thighs, leaning in and nosing Harry beneath his chin.

“You smell amazing,” he murmurs.

He drops small kisses on Harry’s bare chest and nips at the barbell in his left nipple. Harry bucks his hips and exhales a breathy moan when Draco does it again, the sound of the barbell clacking against his teeth.

“Fuck.” Harry shoves his fingers into Draco’s hair and tugs at his head. “Kiss me.”

Draco does, slowly, deeply, and Harry gasps into his mouth. He could kiss Harry forever. Merlin knows that any day he could mess this all up, so he wants to savour the sheer happiness of this moment, pulled straight from his dreams.

Harry groans into Draco’s mouth and grabs his forearms, short fingernails digging into Draco’s skin. Draco deepens the kiss, deliberately slowing things down when Harry tries to take it up a notch. He cups the back of Harry’s head, those short, soft strands of hair smooth as velvet beneath his palm. Harry slides closer and wraps his thighs tightly around Draco’s waist, clinging to him as Draco commits himself to devouring him completely. To memorising his taste, the feel of the soft huffs of Harry’s breath on his face, the heat of Harry’s thighs around him, clenching him in with the strength he harnesses on a broom.

Draco pulls away to mouth at Harry’s jaw and Harry grabs into his shoulders.

“Now, please.” He hooks his arms around Draco’s neck as Draco scoops him off the counter with a low grunt. They stagger backwards, Draco’s back slamming into Harry’s fridge as Harry licks the ridiculously sensitive spot behind Draco’s earlobe.

“I appreciate your faith in my prowess, Harry, but you’re a good few stone of muscle heavier than me.”

Harry’s body shakes with laughter. “You muppet,” he says. “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?”

Draco tries to heft him higher, fairly certain he’s about to pull a muscle in his back or something. “Stop laughing.” He huffs groan when Harry nips his collarbone because it’s always been a _spot_ for him. “I can’t exactly get to my wand, can I?” Harry licks a stipe up the side of Draco’s neck, and his thighs begin to quiver, forcing him to lean heavily against the fridge. “ _Harry_ …”

And then suddenly Harry is lighter, likely having wandlessly cast a Lightening Charm without a thought like the great bloody show off he is. His forearms still smell of Quidditch leather, which, for reasons Draco doesn’t want to examine too closely, turns him on more than anything.

He unsteadily staggers through the living room, Harry’s heels digging into his back, his mouth firmly attached to Draco’s neck. His bedroom is at the rear of the house, lit warmly by witch's fire in a small stone hearth in the centre of the room.

He doesn’t know why—there's certainly no one else in the house—but when they enter Harry’s room, Draco closes the door behind them with the heel of his boot. Then, he just stays there, leaning against the door, holding Harry close, enjoying the feel of his body wrapped around him, his bare chest pressed against his, the beating of Harry’s perfect, _perfect_ heart. 

His cock is hard as a rock and he can feel Harry’s erection poking into his thigh, but he doesn’t want to move, he simply wants to hold Harry here forever after an age of waiting.

Harry kisses his cheek, leaning back to smooth Draco’s brow and push a few errant strands of hair off his forehead. He looks at Draco as if expecting him to speak, but Draco doesn't have the words so he only stares into Harry’s eyes, mapping out the lines crinkling the corners, the scar above his brow, the faded one on his forehead that made him who he is, the impossibly green eyes, even more striking without glasses. Harry kisses his forehead again, and his smile when he pulls away is full of fondness.

“God,” he whispers. “If the world knew how sweet you are.”

“No talk about the world. They’ll hate this.” 

“Fuck the world then.” Harry kisses the tip of Draco’s nose. “I know how sweet you are.” He leans back and grinds his hips against Draco’s cock trapped heavily between them. “Now fuck me.”

At that, Draco walks the few steps to the bed, dumps Harry unceremoniously onto it and begins to strip, unable to take his eyes off Harry as he does the same, his thick cock slapping his unfairly ripped stomach as he takes off his tracksuit bottoms. Draco crawls over him, and in a strange type of crablike synchronicity, they scramble towards the middle of Harry’s plush bed. 

Draco takes Harry’s cock to the back of his throat without warning, gagging himself good and proper, but the sound Harry makes is worth it, even if he grabs Draco’s hair entirely too forcefully. Draco’s eyes fill with stinging tears, and then Harry seems to catch himself, letting up his grip and then fucking Draco’s mouth with a slow sensuousness that makes it clear he wants this to last as long as Draco does.

He lets Harry fuck his mouth until he can barely breathe and then, he pulls off, wrapping his fingers around the thick base of Harry’s cock and teasing him by nudging the underside of the head with his tongue. Harry lifts his hips off the mattress, and he covers his face with both his palms, moaning helplessly as Draco tongues his slit, gently mouthing his cock before taking it all in again, teasing him with the hint of another deep throat then pulling off. Then he does it again, and Harry whimpers. He retreats and mouths Harry’s tip tenderly until his entire body is a mass of vibration, his cock leaking steadily into Draco’s mouth, but Draco doesn’t relent. He takes Harry to the back of his throat again, and Harry threads his fingers in Draco’s hair one more time, fucking his throat with a stuttered carelesslenes that Draco knows will make him come soon. When he knows Harry is close, by the trembling in his heavy thighs, Draco pulls of with a wet pop, his own body shaking, his dick wet as fuck, desperate to be inside Harry. 

“Lube?” 

Harry shakes his head and returns his hands to his eyes. “Can’t think.” 

Draco hops off the bed, rifles through the pockets of his trousers for his wand, then casts a Prep Charm at Harry. He breathes out an apparently involuntary whimper before deftly changing position, moving onto his hands and knees, presenting a deliciously round arse for Draco to fuck. 

Draco makes an involuntary sound of his own, and he Conjures enough lube to coat his fingers before dropping his wand and re-joining Harry on the bed. Lube drips from his fingertips as he circles Harry’s hole with his thumb, deftly slipping halfway inside and twisting before pulling out to circle Harry’s hole again with the flat side of his thumb.

“Please,” Harry moans quietly, arching his back and dropping his shoulders to the mattress. He spreads his knees wide, the insides of his thighs almost flush against the sheets.

He’s always been so fucking flexible, and Draco has to take a moment to stop and admire the smooth lines of his body, the heavy black of the Thestral tattoo on his right thigh that travels up to his hipbone. Bloody hell, does he make a picture, inked arms spread, thighs not even close to straining in his half-split, and his arse… those thick pale globes are spread just for Draco and he takes the opportunity to smack one hard enough to leave a bright red handprint. Harry gasps, rocking his hips, bouncing his arse in an impatient, silent plea. 

Draco spreads more lube along Harry’s crack and Harry shudders when Draco relentlessly circles his hole with the head of his dick almost casually, all the while palming Harry’s arse with his other hand.

“Ungh— Just fuck me.” Harry’s voice is desperate, and Draco smiles, slipping two fingers inside him and curling his fingers upwards. Harry digs his fingers into the mattress, the sound of his nails scratching the sheets still softer than his helpless moans as Draco fingers him with frustrating gentleness. “I’m begg—” 

Draco grabs Harry by the hips, yanking him to the edge of the bed before fucking into him in one deep stroke, stilling when Harry’s back grows tense and he gasps loudly, his breaths turning shallow, his body struggling to get used to the intrusion. 

Harry is practically _vibrating_ around Draco’s cock, and he has to close his eyes and count his breaths, because he doesn’t want to come yet, it’s too fucking soon. Harry’s body feels so perfectly made for him, and he passes a flat palm along the length of Harry’s spine, feeling the first traces of dampness there, loving the way Harry arches into his touch, his body still quivering.

“Okay?”

Harry's only response is to roll his hips, causing Draco’s cock to almost slip all the way out, and then Harry bounces back on his dick without missing a beat. He sets up the pace he’s been begging for all this time, his arse two tantalising mounds of flesh that Draco can’t help but dig his fingers into. 

The sounds coming from Harry alone could be enough to bring Draco to the edge, and he almost comes right there, watching Harry work his dick. But then he grips Harry's hips and sets his own dammed pace: brutal and fast, just the way Harry likes it. 

“Fuck yes there. Right there.” Harry’s sex voice is almost unrecognisable; deep and husky and full of breathy groans. “Don’t you dare stop.” 

Draco has no intention of stopping, though if he keeps up this pace, he’ll come in no time at all. 

He pulls out, flips Harry onto his back, and slides back in again in a practiced move that reflects how well they know each other’s bodies. How much they’re made for each other.

He takes Harry's slick dick in hand, jerking him off in time with his thrusts. Harry arches his back, changing the angle, and Draco almost comes right there.

“Love the way… Don’t stop.”

“Fuck.” He tightens his grip on Harry’s cock, feeling close to the edge and wanting to take Harry with him. Harry grabs the back of his knees and arches his back again and then it’s game over. Draco’s thighs begin to quake, and Harry has to take over jacking himself off because Draco’s losing focus and spiralling upwards to the very edge of his orgasm. 

When Harry’s come spills all over Draco’s hand, his own dick begins to spurt, filling Harry up as he clenches around him, milking him for all he’s worth until Draco becomes too sensitive and has to pull out, leaving a smear of come on Harry’s thigh. 

Draco slips off the bed in search of his wand again and casts Cleaning and Warming Charms on the bed and on Harry who groans gratefully even as he stretches and the bones in his body pop loudly. 

“You've dicked me to death,” he says, eyes closed.

“A good death?”

Harry cracks one lid open and then crawls into the middle of the bed properly, patting the space beside him. 

Draco Summons a blanket from Harry’s chaise longue and joins Harry in the bed, covering them both as they settle together. 

“I swear you can’t lie in your own come for more than two seconds.” 

“I really can’t. I—I feel really bothered by it.” 

Harry laughs, then kisses Draco’s shoulder. “Stay with me?

Draco turns on his side and studies Harry, his kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks. “Leaving was never an option.”


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

No matter how great a weekend in bed with Harry is, like all good things—all _perfect_ things—it inevitably comes to an end.

It’s all so close to a dream he once had—seeing Harry sleepy-eyed and wrapped up his thick cotton sheets, hearing Harry beg for his cock while he’s barely awake, bringing Harry breakfast in bed after thoroughly wearing him out—but they both have to return to reality.

On Sunday, Harry gets an early morning Floo call from his new Head Coach letting him know they’re back at base, and that he’s expected as soon as possible. Before Harry steps into the Floo that evening Draco fucked him up against the countertop as a goodbye, Harry's fingernails digging hard enough into Draco’s back to leave bruises that’ll last for days. By Monday, Draco is back at the office to present his recommendations to the board—the need for periodic drug testing, prioritising mental health checks and creating a support system for players in need—which they take in stride, promising to give them ‘deep consideration’ and ‘further review’. Draco can only hope that they do, but there’s not much more he can do beyond the mountain of work he’d already put into the bloody report. 

In the interim, he spends his days looking forward to Harry’s owls. The Falcons have been training under no contact conditions, usually reserved for when the team is in crisis mode—during competition or when their losses outweigh their wins—and players are only allowed a limited amount of correspondence. No Floo calls, no leaving the base. It’s a practice common among Quidditch teams but one which Draco finds inherently problematic, and something he’d addressed briefly in his recommendations to the board. 

Most of his recommendations are around easing up the constraints on the players and treating them more like human beings than collateral. A vital part of that process is in contract negotiation itself, so on a whim he owls Harry asking if maybe he can have a copy of Harry’s contract to peruse. If the IAQ doesn’t take his recommendations, maybe he can branch out on his own and create his own player support network. 

Though, once he puts his name on the door, chances are no one will come. 

He sighs, and then there’s a tap on the window to his office that makes him smile. He opens it and lets Stel in, watching as she ruffles her slightly damp feathers importantly before acknowledging him.

“Hello love,” he says, taking her missive and uncapping her treats, which she deigns to take delicately from his fingers. 

_can’t write much. late for PT. miss you already. everything’s fine, stop worrying. enclosed contract, what are you up to?  
-H_

Draco smiles again and opens up the contract, just skimming for now, as he plans on a more detailed read later. When his eye lands on the figure Harry makes each year, he boggles. What on earth does he do with all that money? Where is it? The wanker doesn’t even have a decent leather jacket. 

His contract with the Falcons ends in only six months, which Draco secretly thinks is brilliant news, even if he knows Harry might want to renew out of some misplaced sense of loyalty for his team… or worse, a symptom of Wells’ brainwashing.

As he skims the intense legal jargon, Draco has to admit to himself that it is a little beyond him, though no doubt someone like Granger would be able to make sense of it. Is it legal to have players sign these kinds of contracts without a solicitor present? Contract negotiation is such a huge part of the sport that he can’t believe the IAQ doesn’t have a separate department dedicated to it.

There’s a bit of commotion outside his office door, and Draco looks up. After a short perfunctory knock, Wood walks in looking… taller than usual? Broader? Draco can’t put his finger on it, but the man is glowing.

“Are you… under some type of spell?” 

Wood smiles and rests his palms on the back of the chair opposite Draco’s desk. “Maybe,” he says cryptically. Then he smacks the back of the chair with his palm and Draco starts.

“What the devil…?”

“Guess who just got voted in as the new head of the International Association of Quidditch?”

The contract falls from Draco’s fingertips. “Never you?” he says incredulously.

The talk around the office for the last few days has been that that Wood is a shoo-in for the position, but there are at least three members of the board Draco was sure would vote for the older, more experienced (and antiquated, to be entirely truthful) head of the accounting department to take the spot. But apparently, Draco’s lack of faith in the board is a little misplaced (or probably a reflection of his own bias).

“Cannae believe it, can you?” Wood grins widely. “It’s yours truly.” Wood looks so much more like the enthusiastic Quidditch player he had once been, and miles away from the grey-faced antacid-eater he’d been not so long ago. Draco feels nothing but genuine happiness for him. 

He rises from his chair, sticking his hand out, and Wood shakes it enthusiastically. “Of course,” he says. “You know what this means.”

Draco shakes his head. “I haven’t the slightest.”

“Well, obviously your recommendations have been approved,” Oliver says, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Congratulations Malfoy, you’re now the head of the Department of Team Outreach and Engagement.”

“That’s… the name of my report…”

“Yeeees,” Wood says slowly. “That’s why it’s the name of your department. If you want to change it, you’ll have to do the forms yourself.”

“Are you being serious?”

“As a funeral.”

“I…” Draco loses his breath for a second “That’s… not something people say.”

“Isn’t it?”

Draco waves a hand impatiently. “Are you absolutely certain the board will let you do this?”

Wood grins, “I’m in charge now, aren’t I?” He checks his watch. “Look, we’ve got a week of meetings we have to prepare for. Can you be here at six in the morning tomorrow so we can get a head start? I want you to think about who will be a good fit for your team. Outside hires aren’t out of the question, but I’d like to keep it internal if you can, all right?”

“I’m— I yes. Of course. I’ll think about it tonight.”

“We’re in a mess right now, but we can turn it around.” Wood’s expression grows pinched. “Everything is about to run at full speed and I need to know you and the players are all sorted.”

“I—all right. But wait.” Draco eyes the calendar on the wall behind Wood’s head. “Why are we at full speed…?”

“The board voted to lift the halt on the Euro League. Immediately. The Falcons are outliers. They took your advice, random testing of eight different Euro teams, one positive result. Those stats are good. The Falcons’ was a fuck-up. Not a sign of an epidemic, which looks good for us.” Wood shoves his hands in his pockets. “But we’re bleeding money from ticket refunds, and we need to make up our losses. Not to mention we can’t have people leaving Europe in search of a good Quidditch match.”

“I thought we’re not meant to be partial to Europe.”

“But we are, Malfoy, we are,” Wood says, beginning to head towards the door. “Don’t ever forget that.”

“Wood wait… The Falcons. They’ll play?”

Wood shrugs. “They’re still a billion-Galleon team, Malfoy, that hasn’t changed. We can’t afford for them to hold an embargo on their training grounds. Half the League is held there. They’ve paid their sanctions, complied with all or stipulations. We can’t blackball them. It’ll kill us.”

Draco hesitates. “I’m just not sure it’ll be… safe for all the players.”

Wood eyes him carefully. “Something I should know about?” 

Draco hesitates, knowing that Harry will kill him if he tells Wood any details. “No, just… a general concern.” 

Wood nods slowly, not looking at all convinced, then he seems to come to a decision. He casts a Privacy Charm and gestures for Draco to come closer. “There’s something I think you should see.” 

Perturbed, Draco walks around the desk as Wood waves his wand, Summoning a Serviorb, one of the many magical surveillance devices kept in interrogation rooms, offices, detainment facilities, and magical prisons. 

“We’ve been monitoring Wells’ visitors over the last two weeks,” he says. In the orb is a collection of moving images of Harry and Wells talking to each other in the visitation room in the new and improved Azkaban prison.

Draco stares at it for a long time. “Are you sure these dates are correct?” 

“The latest one is from two days ago,” Wood says, using his finger to speed through the images. “The dates are accurate, Malfoy.”

Draco takes the orb into his hands, staring as Wells and Harry argue about something, then fast forwards to another stream, with Harry sitting with his arms folded across his chest looking drawn and distraught, occasionally defensive. 

“Wells has unmonitored visitor access, so we don’t have audio, but that is Harry. He’s visited at least three times now.” 

Draco remains completely still, not sure what to say. Hadn’t Harry said he wouldn’t do this? Hadn’t Draco asked him not to? “What the fuck is he thinking?” 

“There are… rumours that Harry was the primary source in your investigation.” Draco looks up to find Wood studying him carefully. “And I also know you two have a long and… complicated history. Because we have proof of Wells’ emotional and physical abuse of his players, Harry’s visits were flagged. I told them to red list him. He won’t be allowed alone in the room again. That’s the best I can do.” 

“I… Thanks.” Draco wordlessly hands back the orb. “He promised me he wouldn’t. I’m sure he did.”

Wood puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “He’s going through a lot,” he says gently. “And Harry is more practised at pretending to be fine than the rest of us. Give him a chance to explain, all right? It might help to know where his head is at.”

Draco nods, barely registering when Wood packs away the orb and retreats to the doorway. “This is why we need to get your department off the ground,” he says solemnly. “To protect players like Harry from arseholes like Wells.”

He opens the door, stops to say a quiet “Congratulations, Draco,” and then he leaves.

The following week is a whirlwind. Oliver helps Draco set up the barebones of Draco’s department, assigning roles to a few witches and wizards he’s worked passably well with over the years, most of whom have the grace to look sheepish if they’ve ever said anything fucked up to his face. 

The contract negotiation position, however, is still to be filled and since it requires a solicitor with experience, he has to hire from outside. Of course his top choice is Granger. But he’s not certain if she’ll be interested in working with him, or even the IAQ. If he tries to contact Granger now, all he’ll think about is Harry, who hasn’t even been able to send him an owl since the restarting of the League. When he thinks about those images—Harry sitting with Wells, taking his abuse like… some kind of _Inferi,_ he still gets a bit livid. He has to remind himself again and again that his anger is misplaced. It isn’t Harry's fault. As the longest standing Falcons player, he’s been under the influence of Wells’ mind fucking the longest, and even though he’s been going to his mandatory Mind Healer appointments, Draco knows Harry isn’t doing it whole-heartedly and that recovery is the last thing on Harry’s mind.

He’d underestimated the hold Wells has on Harry—the hooks in his brain. Harry's dependence on him, his stubborn decision to remain with the Falcons, the casual way he puts himself through the abuse of his teammates—all of this comes from Wells, Draco has no doubt of that now. He just can’t understand why.

All he knows is that he has to help Harry get out from beneath him.

He also knows that Harry’s had some fairly decent offers from both Puddlemere and the Cannons, but according to his contract, legally he can’t leave until the end of the season in six months.

But if he did, what could the Falcons do? Arrest him? Draco would serve the sentence himself if it means lifting the weight off Harry’s shoulders. 

When he gets home, he sends Harry an owl, not expecting any response, but still hoping anyway.

_Missing you. -D_

Then he settles in to study some of the addendums a few of his coworkers had made in their efforts to improve Draco’s original proposal. Many of them touch a lot of points that Draco had neglected to think about –support for minority players, addressing sexism in the drafting process—and Draco takes notes, thankful to have his mind opened in the interest of making Quidditch a better sport for all players, not just the ones Draco could think of. 

The last thing he expects is for Harry’s face to pop up in his Floo, and as such, Draco drops all of his papers in a heap and stares down at the fireplace for a full few seconds before remembering to yank off his reading glasses and toss them over his shoulder.

Harry grins, his face rippling in the flames. “Too late,” he says gleefully. “I’ve already seen them!”

“It’s not the first time,” Draco grumbles. He scrambles closer to the flames, sitting on the rug before the hearth and wishing he could reach out and touch Harry for himself. 

“Don’t worry, I think they’re incredibly hot.” Harry looks bruised and tired and… lonely. Draco’s heart aches even through the anger he still feels, knowing that Harry had gone and done something behind Draco’s back after he’d practically begged Harry not to. 

“How are you able to Floo? I thought it was no contact?” 

“I’m breaking the rules,” Harry says with a wink, a hint of his old self shining through. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Are you all right?” 

Harry smiles, and it’s a real one even though his eyes are shadowed. “I’m fine, I’m fine… it’s just been a tough few days.” 

The Falcons had lost their first qualifier match, which was unheard of for them, and now they already stand to lose their place in the League. Most of the public are ready to blame it on low player morale after three player bans, two of which happened to be the finest Beaters in the League. But the sports journalists are more likely to cite the new Falcons coach Celia Blackwell’s decision to drop Harry to second string. Famously quoted as saying: “No team should become reliant on their Seeker,” Blackwell had announced the reshuffling of the team roster at a press conference that had been largely met by boos and jeers from fans.

Under any other circumstance, Draco would agree with the coach’s sentiment. A team that’s overly reliant on their Seeker is a team that leaves their wins and loses up to chance—what if the Seeker catches, but the other team has already out scored? But Draco is almost certain that Blackwell is under Wells’ control, and Harry's demotion is part of a plan to punish him. 

While Harry had previously insisted that the team is ignoring him and that there’s been no outright disdain or abuse, Draco can tell just by looking into Harry's eyes now that this is no longer true—if it ever was. 

“Harry,” Draco says carefully. “Are you lying to me?” 

For a moment, Harry looks shocked to have been asked, and then his gaze flicks to the right, and Draco knows that Harry is about to lie to him again. “It’s just the stress of the League, it’ll pass.” He rubs his face, and then tries for a smile. “I want to hear about you, though. How’s the new position? Have you asked Hermione if she’ll work for you yet?” 

“Not for me,” Draco says absently, cataloguing the look on Harry’s face, committing it to memory so he can make a vow to himself now that he’ll do anything to make sure that he never looks this sad again. “ _With_ me.” 

“With you, then.” 

“It’s fine. I—” 

He stops, and Harry bites his lip and interjects, “I know I look bad.” 

“You look as though you’re lying to me,” Draco says. “I’m asking you not to do that. No matter what you think I need to hear. Don’t lie.” 

Harry hesitates. “All right,” he says. “It’s bad. It’s not the whole team, just… three of them. They’re coming at me hard and Blackwell isn’t budging. Says we have to work out our differences on the pitch.” 

“Have you been?”

“She makes us play against each other too often,” Harry says with a frown. “It’s getting into some of our heads.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

Harry sighs. “Maybe.” 

“Harry,” Draco says. “Why won't you leave? What's keeping you there?”

“My contract—” 

“Fuck your contract.”

Harry presses his lips together, then says tersely, “You asked me not to lie to you… well I’m asking you this: Don’t try to control my life. When my contract is over… I’ll consider my options… but don’t ask me to try to break it now. That’s not me.” He sighs. “I know it looks bad now, but there are people on this team that I love like brothers. Players I’ve been on the pitch with for most of my career.”

“Merlin save us from Gryffindor loyalty.” 

Harry's face goes flinty. “Think what you want,” he says. “Don’t forget, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it all my life.” 

Draco bites back his retort, reminding himself that getting under Harry's skin is not going to help. It’ll only play into whatever game Wells is playing.

“Have you at least been taking the sessions with your Mind Healer more seriously?”

“I…” Harry sighs. “You asked me not to lie to you, so I won’t.”

“Harry…”

Harry looks over his shoulder briefly. “Look, I have to go.” He pauses. “Will you be at the match on Wednesday?” 

Draco swallows the lump in his throat, and then he nods. “I’ll always be there.”

Harry smiles tiredly at him and then abruptly disappears from the flames.


	7. Chapter 7

The IAQ box in the Falmouth Falcons Stadium is a riot of noise, and children, and teenagers, and self-important officials who make Draco’s blood roil. But he’s the head of a department now, so it would do well to show his face, as Wood had said earlier. Draco had reluctantly agreed on the grounds that Wood offer Hemione Granger the position of contract negotiator on his team at the salary she requested. The salary was a few thousand over the budget Draco was given, but, as the IAQ knows, she’s the best qualified for the job and more than committed to—in her words—bring some basic humanity to the sport of Quidditch.

The match has been a long one, almost two hours so far, and there’s been no sign of the Snitch. The Falcons are trailing by only 80 points, but the Chasers for the Holyhead Harpies are the best in the League, so Draco fully expects them to raise their margin any minute.

The live commentary filters in through the speaker boxes in the lounge, but Draco can barely hear it over the shrieking of children running circles around their parents’ feet, with miniature action figures of their favourite players flying above their heads. Why the bloody hell have they come to the match if all they want to do is run around? Why have their parents brought them? 

Children are unfathomable.

There’s a loud collective groan as Alexander Densioff, the Falcons new first-string Seeker, hard checks the Harpies Seeker, almost knocking her off her broom. She rights herself and veers from him just as he snags the end of her robes, and the stadium erupts into jeers. Draco steps closer to the giant glass window that offers the view of the match and stuffs his hands into his pockets. The IAQ box is high enough to see the action at a close angle, close enough so that Draco can see the expression on Densioff’s hard-planed face when the referee halts the match.

“What happened?” Wood asks, as he steps towards Draco, offering him a pint.

“He’s about to get sent off.” As he says it, the referee who had been in a heated shouting match with the Falcons Seeker holds up her hand, pointing it towards the Harpies end of the pitch.

“And that’s the Quaffle to the Harpies!” the commentator says loudly. “Densioff is suspended for excessive force and unsportsmanlike conduct! Let’s hope Johnson is okay, folks, that was a hard hit! The Harpies have asked for five minutes stoppage time, and yes, the referee is granting that. Let’s see if the Falcons finally take Potter off the bench… and— Blackwell’s got some sense in her after all! Potter takes his first sweep of the field for the 2019 European Champions League!”

The arena breaks into utter pandemonium, everyone jumping to their feet with thunderous applause as Harry takes to the pitch, ascending swiftly to join his team and then flying circles around the field, already making a sweep for the Snitch. 

“And play is on!”

Over the next forty-five minutes, the match gets brutal—with the Falcons racking up fines for unfair play, the Harpies hanging onto their lead by a thread, and the two Seekers endlessly circling the pitch in an apparently vain search for their quarry.

Harry’s been hovering above the stands mostly motionless for the last ten minutes, and to a novice it might seem like he’s casually observing the game, but Draco knows just by the set of his shoulders that he has a lead on the Snitch, and that he’s been waiting for the most opportune moment to—

“And there he goes!” 

Harry drops into a massive dive so fast that even Draco can’t tell if it’s a feint or not, but the Harpies Seeker gives chase, even though she doesn’t have a chance of catching Harry with the lead he’s got. The Harpies Beater gets wind of the chase and sends the Bludger in Harry's direction, and Draco swears his heart misses a beat when Harry rolls upside down so that the Bludger brushes the underside of his broom, narrowly missing his shins and making everyone in the stands collectively whimper. Harry rights himself without missing a beat, still in a breakneck-speed pursuit. He makes an almost perpendicular ascent, and then finally Draco spots the glint of the Snitch himself—how the bloody hell had Harry seen it? The Snitch makes a sudden veer off course, and Draco loses sight completely, but Harry doesn’t. He drops into a dive, and the Harpies Beater follows him down, her counterpart flying in tandem. Before she even sends the volley in Harry’s direction, Draco can tell what’s going to happen.

Draco edges closer to the glass, heartbeat picking up speed as Harry doesn’t break his dive at all, and the Harpies Beater makes a high perpendicular ascent above Harry, who continues his dive, entirely focused on the Snitch. She makes a perfect hit, sending the Bludger towards Harry with such force that Draco can swear he hears the knock of the bat from where he is, the swoosh of the Bludger as it parts the air. 

“Where the fuck are his Beaters?” Wood shouts from behind him. At the angle Harry's flying, there’s no way he’ll be able to tell the Bludger is heading for him. Draco spots one of the Falcons, Sam Phillips, only a mere metres away, perfectly in range to knock the Bludger off course as is his job, but he evades it at the last moment, leaving it to fly straight at Harry. Just as the referee blows her whistle in warning, the Bludger smashes into Harry's ribs, launching him straight off his boom, and he flips and begins to plummet towards the snow laden earth below. 

The entire stadium goes silent, and Draco steps away from the glass, hands over his mouth. The referee waves her wand in a sweeping arc, slowing Harry's decent but it’s not enough, not nearly enough, and when Harry connects with the ground in a heap, a dozen or so figures run to him on the field.

Draco feels as though someone has stuck his feet to the ground. “Get up,” he murmurs, his breath like ice shards stabbing his chest. “Get up, get up, get up.” 

But Harry doesn’t move and as a magical stretcher floats towards his lifeless body, Draco looks down at his hand in utter confusion because someone is tugging at his elbow. 

It’s Wood. “Come on!”

After a moment of bewilderment, Draco follows him down the stairs that lead directly from the box to the dugouts on the grounds. Panting heavily, they both climb out onto the pitch and run across the ice-packed earth to where everyone is gathered around Harry’s body. Athletes from both teams slowly make their way closer, holding their broom aloft, murmuring to each other in low voices. Draco ploughs his way through them until at last he reaches Harry, surrounded by a team of green-robed Healers waving their wands over his lifeless form.

They’d removed his leathers and robes, and he’s dressed only in thermal underwear. His top has been sliced open down the middle, exposing his chest, now covered with blood and grime. Irrationally, Draco wants to make everyone turn and look away or close their eyes, knowing Harry wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this. 

His vision starts to blur and Draco spends a few seconds anxiously shaking head before he realises it’s only tears. He wipes his face and tries to get closer, but Wood puts a hand on his forearm, nodding to the line of security around Harry and the Healers. They won’t let Draco near, no matter who he works for, so Draco steps backwards, watching helplessly. Harry's arm is bent at an odd angle, and a Healer carefully waves his wand to stabilise it. There’s blood all over Harry’s face, matted through the hair that he’d only recently begun to let grow. His eyes are closed softly as if he’s only sleeping. Close to where Draco stands, the Harpies Beater is crying into her teammates shoulder. Most of the Falcons are standing off to the side. 

When he spots Philips casually dropping his broom to the grass and beginning to pull off his leathers, Draco loses it. He doesn’t even remember running across the pitch, but he definitely feels it when his fist connects with Phillips’ nose with such force that he even surprises himself.

Phillips reels backwards, landing on his elbows and, without thinking, Draco jumps atop him, his jean-clad knees getting soaked by the soggy grass beneath, and punches him again, relishing the feel of Phillips nose crunching beneath his knuckles. Phillips raises his hands to shield himself, but Draco knocks them away, reeling back for another punch until someone grabs him from behind and yanks him upwards by his elbows, then pulls him away, their nails digging into Draco’s biceps. He struggles fruitlessly, but whoever is holding him is taller and bigger, so he opts for yelling instead.

“You shit! I’ll fucking kill you! You let it happen. You fucking—” He’s yanked backward again, and it knocks the breath out of his lungs.

Phillips wipes the blood off his nose, his blue eyes wide in shock, and tries to push himself off the ground. “It was an accident!”

“Bollocks! I swear to Merlin—” He tries to wriggle out of his captor’s grip again, but finds himself firmly blocked in.

“Malfoy! Draco! Stop! Stop it.” Only then does Draco recognise the voice as Weasley’s, but even that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop him. He wants to launch himself at Phillips again, add more to the blood in his knuckles, and so he tries to lunge again until Weasley wraps his arms around Draco’s chest and hooks his forearm beneath his neck in a choke hold. “Stop. Harry needs you,” he says close to Draco’s ear. “They’ll arrest you. Stop.”

Draco forces himself to breathe, to calm down, and then he nods and stops struggling. “Okay. I’m okay.” 

After a moment, Weasley lets him free. Draco straightens his clothes, and he realises that Wood is beside them and that a small crowd has gathered. Wood’s palm hovers near Draco’s elbow, perhaps in the event that Draco might decide to make another go at taking Phillips down. He seriously considers it; it’s obvious to anyone who had seen the match that Phillips deliberately let Harry take the hit. Maybe he didn’t think it would be as bad as it was, but the fact is, Harry’s lying broken and Phillips is alive and well. 

Weasley looks down at Phillips as if he would have liked nothing more than to join in the fight himself—ears red, mouth downturned in a fearsome scowl. But he only spits at Phillips’ feet and grabs Draco’s arm, leading him off the pitch, Wood in tow.

“They’ve taken him to the hospital,” he says, leading them Merlin knows where. “I’m his emergency contact, so I have his St Mungo’s Portkey.” They jog together away from the crowds and find an empty spot behind the bleachers, where, for some reason, they huddle around each other as Weasley pulls out a beaten-looking copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and holds it up.

“It’ll activate soon,” he says. “Take hold.”

Draco stares at him stupidly, utterly confused and painfully numb. If Harry dies if he dies if he dies _if he dies_ —he starts when Wood gently takes his hand and places it beside Weasley’s on the book cover. Draco lifts his gaze to Wood’s face—why are they touching this book when Harry’s body is prone and broken on the pitch?

Wood tries for a small smile. “Hold on, Draco,” he says. “I’ll see you there.”

And then the Portkey whisks them away.

The waiting is the worst of it, but at least he’s not alone. The entire Weasley clan is there, and none of them seem at all bothered or surprised by his presence. He has a moment of achingly fond regard thinking of Harry sitting Molly Weasley down and telling her about them. When had that happened? Last week? Before the case? Years ago when they kissed for the first time in the middle of the small room they shared at Aerovane, both nervous and young, both naïve about the repercussions of what they were starting. 

The Healer in charge, a young witch whose name he still hasn’t caught, comes twice to tell them that Harry is still alive and that they’re working on him, but when anyone asks for specifics she become vague, perhaps not wanting to create any false hope.

He’s barely aware of the concept of time, only noting its passage when people come and go; some must leave for work, others must check on their children. Wood touches his shoulder at some point and says he has to leave, IAQ is already having an emergency meeting to address the match. Draco only nods numbly, unable to care any less about what the IAQ is doing. 

He’s just about to get up and pace when Granger hands him a coffee and sits next to him, folding her leg beneath her. “Drink it,” she says. “You’ll need it.”

He dutifully takes a few sips and mutters, “Thanks.”

She smiles tightly at him. “You know, growing up, I never thought so much of my life would revolve around Quidditch, but here I am.” She waves her hand. “My best friend is—” her mouth quivers for a moment. “ _Is_ an international Quidditch star, and I’ve accepted an offer with the IAQ.”

Draco’s heart lifts slightly, “That’s brilliant, Granger,” he says, genuinely pleased, though Merlin knows if Harry dies, he’ll never step foot into the IAQ again. 

“Yes,” she says. “Ron certainly thinks so—”

But she’s interrupted when the Healer bursts through the double doors down the hall and comes walking briskly to them with a chart in her hand, a grim expression on her face. Her hair is a floppy mess on her head, and she looks as though she might have been Splinched, but when she meets Draco’s gaze, there's a smile in her eyes. 

“First off, he’s awake,” she says, nodding at their collective sighs of relief but stepping back a bit when Molly Weasley bursts into tears. “He has a long recovery ahead.” She begins listing Harry’s injuries, each one lifting another wave of anxiety from somewhere beneath Draco’s breastbone. Harry had broken all his ribs on his left side and his right leg, and fractured a hip bone and his collarbone. Miraculously there was no damage to any of his organs, but the Healers were most concerned about the rapid swelling in his brain they couldn’t seem to combat with potions.

“He seems to have a resistance to magical painkillers probably due to years of overuse. His blood work shows signs of liver damage due to prolonged use of Adrenisine, and his stress levels are simply too high.” 

They had been forced to mix Muggle and magical solutions, drilling a small hole into his skull to feed the potions directly. It worked so well that Harry had arisen within an hour of the treatment. “He’s going to seem perfectly fine, but I have him on some potions to prevent infection that will make him feel a little strange, so he’s going to be a bit more vulnerable than usual.” Her gaze flicks to draco. “He’s asked to see you first.”

At that, Draco almost cries in front of everyone, but he takes a deliberate moment to calm himself, closes his eyes briefly, and then he nods, following the Healer to Harry’s room after everyone pats him on the back. Once he sees Harry propped up by pillows, his eyes closed, his hair all gone again, and the base of his skull wrapped in bandages, the tears come again against his will and he almost chokes at the sheer magnitude of his love for Harry—at the horror of the thought that this man had almost been taken away. He considers what life would be like without Harry, and easily concludes that it would be no life at all.

Harry opens his eyes as Draco steps in the doorway and when they lock gazes, Draco lets the tears fall unbidden. He couldn’t stop if he tried. Harry’s always been larger than life, but in this stark white hospital bed, he looks so small, his wrists so thin beneath his hospital band. 

When Harry holds out his hand, Draco crosses the room in two long strides and sits beside him on the bed, taking Harry’s hand in his. Without even thinking about it, he gently rests his head on Harry’s chest, staying there, listening to his breaths, feeling his body rise and fall, the reassuring heat of him, the smell of his familiar body. Harry runs his fingers through Draco’s hair and he shudders.

“I’m all right,” he says quietly.

Draco nods uselessly, and for a time they sit that way, listening to each other breathe, until Draco collects himself and sits up, wiping his face as Harry studies him carefully. “Are _you_ all right?”

Draco laughs wetly. “No.”

“The Healer says I’ll be fine.”

“She _said_ you have a long recovery ahead.”

“Yes,” Harry says. “But I’m all right, Draco. Truly.”

Draco studies him closely. “No you’re not,” he says, knowing that Harry will understand that he’s not only referring to this injury. “But I want you to be. So much.” 

Harry chews his lower lip. “Tell me what happened.” 

It hadn’t occurred to Draco that Harry wouldn’t remember all of it, though, of course, as he asks it seems obvious that he would need help parsing things out. “You were in a dive,” he says. “The Harpies Beater sent a Bludger your way.” 

Harry looks a pit but out at that. “I couldn’t outfly it?”

“It was coming from behind you,” Draco says. “Phillips could have diverted it, but he didn’t.” 

Harry says nothing to this, but then he looks over Draco’s shoulder through the window behind him, his expression solemn. “I’d love to say I’m surprised.” 

“The IAQ is already deliberating, but at this point it’s moot. The Falcons are already out of the League, which means your season is over.” 

“I guess… yeah it is.” 

Draco wonders if he’s imagining the note of relief in Harry’s voice. They sit quietly for a moment, until Harry unexpectedly lifts his hand and cups Draco’s cheek. “You know I—” He hesitates, then tries again. “I think I remember falling,” he says. “I was thinking about how much Wells was gonna yell at me for missing the catch.” He brushes a lock of Draco’s hair off his forehead. “But then, I thought of you. Your face was the last thing I saw before I hit the ground.” 

Draco turns Harry’s hand over and kisses the back of his palm. 

“I’ve been to see him,” Harry adds quietly. “I don’t know why… I just sometimes feel like… he’s in control of me, you know? As though I owe him things—my time, my… skills, my trophies, my mind… I don’t know.” 

“Harry, he fucked with your head.” Draco struggles for a moment, trying to find the best way to tell Harry that he’s a victim of abuse just like Macmillan, O’Malley, and Greene. “I don’t know how it works, or what it’s called, but… what you’re feeling is all… part of something he’s done to you. Something you need help with.” 

“I… yes. I know you’re right… anecdotally.” He says. “But that’s not me, is it? It’s hard to accept that I’ve let him—”

“You’ve not let him do anything.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says. “After all I’ve been through, my downfall is meant to be a fucking Quidditch coach? Come on, Draco, you know that’s pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic.”

Harry lets out a heavy breath and his gaze trails towards the window again. Always on the hunt for sky. Draco’s heart swells with a wave of fondness. “I have a suggestion for you,” he says. “A step you can take for now.”

Harry frowns. “Oookay?”

“But after we do this one small thing, you have to promise me that you’ll work on the other things.” At the look of panic on Harry’s face, Draco hastens to add, “I’ll be here for you no matter what. But I need your word. Be willing to try.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, the hollows beneath his eyes bruised and smudged. “Okay,” he says. “I promise.” 

“Leave the Falcons.” Harry doesn’t even look momentarily surprised. “Do it now, before your contract ends, and I promise you together, we’ll work on all the other things.” He squeezes Harry’s hand. “It’ll get better Harry, I promise.” 

Harry lifts Draco’s hand to his mouth and, echoing Draco’s earlier move, presses it to his lips. After a few moments of heavy silence, he nods slowly, his eyes bright, his smile curling upward to meet the swirl of tears on his cheek.

### Epilogue

 _6 months later_

Draco’s always found the whole process of the team selection announcement a bit much, but watching Harry sit back at the press conference table, grin on his face, a Cannons scarf on the left side of the table in front of him, Puddlemere scarf on the right, is actually a little exciting.

Harry hasn’t even told Draco which team he’s chosen, so he’s sitting on the edge of his seat along with everyone else in the IAQ lobby.

He knows which team he’d like Harry to choose, though he’s been so careful to avoid making any suggestions to him. Harry’s Mind Healer, who Draco has had a few joint sessions with, always advises him to be careful of pressuring Harry in any way, as he had done when he’d asked Harry to leave the Falcons—something he can’t make himself regret. Harry’s expected to be more sensitive to suggestion as he works through his recovery after years of Wells’ abuse.

Draco still doesn’t know the full extent of it. The small details of Harry’s years of torment under Wells reveal themselves in slow, sporadic trickles whenever Harry feels ready to divulge. Draco does his best never to push him past what he can bear, and the few things things he does learn—the way Wells had often punished Harry by withholding praise, by berating him if the team ever lost a match, the casual invasions of Harry’s privacy, the tabs he’d keep on Harry’s whereabouts, even when he was on vacation—makes him happy that Wells is already imprisoned.

Otherwise, Draco has no doubts that he would find a way to kill him.

On the stage, Harry smiles a cheeky smile slowly lowering his hand to the Puddlemere scarf. Draco’s stomach falls; the Puddlemere coach hated Draco on sight, sneering at him when Harry’s back was turned, making a face when Harry had introduced him as his partner. But if it makes Harry happy, he supposes—

“Just kidding!”

_Oh thank Merlin._

Harry grabs the Cannons scarf and wraps it around his neck to much applause and the snapping of dozens of cameras. Draco lets out an undignified “ _whoop_!” and gets to his feet, clapping. The Cannons coach, Coleen Johnson—a close relative of Angelina Johnson—had welcomed them into her home, served them dinner, and had actually taken the time to get to know them before offering Harry a contract. It’s less than he made at the Falcons—much less—but Draco knows Harry will be happy there, and Harry’s happiness is paramount.

After all the commotion has died down and the crowd begins to disperse, Draco walks over to Harry with a smile, and Harry loops the scarf over Draco’s head, using it to pull him in for a kiss.  
A couple of cameras flash and bulbs shatter, and Draco goes to pull away, but Harry tugs him back. “Don’t you dare,” he says, dropping another kiss at the corner of Draco’s mouth. “I only came here to take pictures with the man I love.”

~fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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